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THE 


AUTOCRAT 

OF 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


Every  man  his  own  Boswell 


FORTY-SECOND  EDITION 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 
(C6e  CamliriDoe 

1885 


Copyright,  1858  and  1882, 

BV  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES* 


The  Riverside  Press f Cambridge: 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  and  Company. 


%\7 


r 


TO  THE  EEADERS  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 
THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


< 

- ‘ Twenty-five  years  more  have  passed  since  the  si- 
lence of  the  preceding  twenty-five  years  was  broken 
’^by  the  first  words  of  the  self-recording  personage 
who  lends  his  title  to  these  pages,  in  the  ‘‘Atlantic 
<^Monthly  ” for  November,  1857.  The  children  of 
'^hose  who  first  read  these  papers  as  they  appeared 
Qi-^are  still  reading  them  as  kindly  as  their  fathers  and 
^mothers  read  them  a quarter  of  a century  ago.  And 
now,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years  I have  read 
them  myself,  thinking  that  they  might  be  improved 
by  various  corrections  and  changes. 

But  it  is  dangerous  to  tamper  in  cold  blood  and  in 
after  life  with  what  was  written  in  the  glow  of  an 
earlier  period.  Its  very  defects  are  a part  of  its  or- 
ganic individuality.  It  would  spoil  any  character 
these  records  may  have  to  attempt  to  adjust  them 
to  the  present  age  of  the  world  or  of  the  author.  We 
have  all  of  us,  writer  and  readers,  drifted  away  from 
many  of  our  former  habits,  tastes,  and  perhaps  beliefs. 
The  world  could  spare  every  human  being  who  was 
living  when  the  first  sentence  of  these  papers  was 
written  ; its  destinies  would  be  safe  in  the  hands  of 
the  men  and  women  of  twenty-five  years  and  under. 


IV 


TO  THE  READEKS  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT. 


This  book  was  written  for  a generation  which  knew 
nothing  or  next  to  nothing  of  war,  and  hardly  dreamed 
of  it;  which  felt  as  if  invention  must  have  exhausted 
itself  in  the  miracles  it  had  already  wrought.  To-day, 
in  a small  sea-side  village  of  a few  himdred  inhabit- 
ants, I see  the  graveyard  fluttering  with  little  flags 
that  mark  the  soldiers’  graves ; we  read,  by  the  light 
the  rocks  of  Pennsylvania  have  furnished  for  us,  all 
that  is  most  important  in  the  morning  papers  of  the 
civilized  world ; the  lightning,  so  swift  to  run  our  er- 
rands, stands  shining  over  us,  white  and  steady  as  the 
moonbeams,  burning,  but  unconsumed ; we  talk  with 
people  in  the  neighboring  cities  as  if  they  were  at  our 
elbow,  and  as  our  equipages  flash  along  the  highway, 
the  silent  bicycle  glides  by  us  and  disappears  in  the 
distance.  All  these  since  1857,  and  how  much  more 
than  these  changes  in  our  every-day  conditions ! I can 
say  without  offence  to-day  that  which  called  out  the 
most  angry  feelings  and  the  hardest  language  twenty- 
five  years  ago.  I may  doubt  everything  to-day  if  I 
will  only  do  it  civilly. 

I cannot  make  over  again  the  book  and  those  which 
followed  it,  and  I will  not  try  to  mend  old  garments 
with  new  cloth.  Let  the  sensible  reader  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  author  would  agree  with  him  in 
changing  whatever  he  would  alter,  in  leaving  out  what- 
ever he  would  omit,  if  it  seemed  worth  while  to  tam- 
per with  what  was  finished  long  ago.  The  notes  which 
have  been  added  will  not  interrupt  the  cmrent  of  the 
conversational  narrative. 

I can  never  be  too  grateful  for  the  tokens  of  regard 
which  these  papers  and  those  which  followed  them 
have  brought  me.  The  kindness  of  my  far-off  friends 
has  sometimes  over-taxed  my  power  of  replying  to 


TO  THE  READERS  OF  THE  AUTOCRAT.  V 

them,  but  they  may  be  assured  that  their  pleasant 
words  were  always  welcome,  however  insufficiently  ac- 
knowledged. 

I have  experienced  the  friendship  of  my  readers  so 
long  that  I cannot  help  anticipating  some  measure  of 
its  continuance.  If  I should  feel  the  burden  of  cor- 
respondence too  heavily  in  the  coming  years,  I desire 
to  record  in  advance  my  gratitude  to  those  whom  I 
may  not  be  able  to  thank  so  fully  and  so  cordially  as 
I could  desire. 


Beverly  Farms,  Mass.,  August  29,  1882. 


REMOTE  STORAG 


THE  AUTOCEAT’S  AITTOBIOGEAPHY. 

f 

The  interruption  referred  to  in  the  first  sentence  of 
the  first  of  these  papers  was  just  a quarter  of  a cen- 
tury in  duration. 

Two  articles  entitled  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table ” will  be  found  in  the  ‘‘  New  England 
Magazine,”  formerly  published  in  Boston  by  J.  T. 
and  E.  Buckingham.  The  date  of  the  first  of  these 
articles  is  November,  1831,  and  that  of  the  second 
February,  1832.  When  The  Atlantic  Monthly  ” was 
begun,  twenty-five  years  afterwards,  and  the  author 
was  asked  to  write  for  it,  the  recollection  of  these 
crude  products  of  his  uncombed  literary  boyhood  sug- 
gested the  thought  that  it  would  be  a curious  experi- 
ment to  shake  the  same  bough  again,  and  see  if  the 
ripe  fruit  were  better  or  worse  than  the  early  wind- 
falls. 

So  began  this  series  of  papers,  which  naturally 
brings  those  earlier  attempts  to  my  own  notice  and 
that  of  some  few  friends  who  were  idle  enough  to  read 
them  at  the  time  of  their  publication.  The  man  is 
father  to  the  boy  that  was,  and  I am  my  own  son,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  in  those  papers  of  the  New  England 
Magazine.”  If  I find  it  hard  to  pardon  the  boy’s 
faults,  others  would  find  it  harder.  They  will  not, 
therefore,  be  reprinted  here,  nor,  as  I hope,  anywhere. 


viii  THE  autocrat’s  autobiography. 

But  a sentence  or  two  from  them  will  perhaps  bear 
reproducing,  and  with  these  I trust  the  gentle  reader, 
if  that  kind  being  still  breathes,  will  be  contented. 

— It  is  a capital  plan  to  carry  a tablet  with  you,  and, 
when  you  find  yourself  felicitous,  take  notes  of  your  own 
conversation.”  — 

— “ When  I feel  inclined  to  read  poetry  I take  down 
my  Dictionary.  The  poetry  of  words  is  quite  as  beautiful 
as  that  of  sentences.  The  author  may  arrange  the  gems 
effectively,  but  their  shape  and  lustre  have  been  given  by 
the  attrition  of  ages.  Bring  me  the  finest  simile  from  the 
whole  range  of  imaginative  writing,  and  I will  show  you  a 
single  word  which  conveys  a more  profound,  a more  accu- 
rate, and  a more  eloquent  analogy.”  — 

— “ Once  on  a time,  a notion  was  started,  that  if  all  the 
people  in  the  world  would  shout  at  once,  it  might  be  heard 
in  the  moon.  So  the  projectors  agreed  it  should  be  done 
in  just  ten  years.  Some  thousand  shiploads  of  chronome- 
ters were  distributed  to  the  selectmen  and  other  great  folks 
of  all  the  different  nations.  For  a year  beforehand,  noth- 
ing else  was  talked  about  but  the  awful  noise  that  was  to 
be  made  on  the  great  occasion.  When  the  time  came, 
everybody  had  their  ears  so  wide  open,  to  hear  the  uni- 
versal ejaculation  of  Boo,  — the  word  agreed  upon,  — that 
nobody  spoke  except  a deaf  man  in  one  of  the  Fejee  Isl- 
ands, and  a woman  in  Pekin,  so  that  the  world  was  never 
so  still  since  the  creation.”  — 

There  was  nothing  better  than  these  things  and 
there  was  not  a little  that  was  much  worse.  A young 
fellow  of  two  or  three  and  twenty  has  as  good  a right 
to  spoil  a magazine-full  of  essays  in  learning  how  to 
write,  as  an  oculist  like  Wenzel  had  to  spoil  his  hat- 
full  of  eyes  in  learning  how  to  operate  for  cataract,  or 
an  elegant  like  Brummel  to  point  to  an  armful  of  fail- 
ures in  the  attempt  to  achieve  a perfect  neck-tie.  This 


THE  AUTOCKAT’S  AUTOBIOGKAPHY.  ix 

son  of  mine,  whom  I have  not  seen  for  these  twen- 
ty-five years,  generously  counted,  was  a self-willed 
youth,  always  too  ready  to  utter  his  unchastised  fan- 
cies. He,  like  too  many  American  young  people,  got 
the  spur  when  he  should  have  had  the  rein.  He  there- 
fore helped  to  fill  the  market  with  that  unripe  fruit 
which  his  father  says  in  one  of  these  papers  abounds 
in  the  marts  of  his  native  country.  All  these  by-gone 
shortcomings  he  would  hope  are  forgiven,  did  he  not 
feel  sure  that  very  few  of  his  readers  know  anything 
about  them.  In  taking  the  old  name  for  the  new 
papers,  he  felt  bound  to  say  that  he  had  uttered  un- 
wise things  under  that  title,  and  if  it  shall  appear 
that  his  unwisdom  has  not  diminished  by  at  least  half 
while  his  years  have  doubled,  he  promises  not  to  re- 
peat the  experiment  if  he  should  live  to  double  them 
again  and  become  his  own  grandfather. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


Boston,  November  1,  1858. 


\ 


( 


THE  AUTOCRAT 


OF  THE 

BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


I. 

I WAS  just  going  to  say,  when  I was  interrupted, 
that  one  of  the  many  ways  of  classifying  minds  is 
under  the  heads  of  arithmetical  and  algebraical  in- 
tellects. All  economical  and  practical  wisdom  is  an 
extension  or  variation  of  the  following  arithmetical 
formula  : 2 -j-  2 = 4.  Every  philosophical  proposition 
has  the  more  general  character  of  the  expression 
a -f-  & = c.  We  are  mere  operatives,  empirics,  and 
egotists,  until  we  learn  to  think  in  letters  instead  of 
figures. 

They  all  stared.  There  is  a divinity  student  lately 
come  among  us  to  whom  I commonly  address  remarks 
like  the  above,  allowing  him  to  take  a certain  share 
in  the  conversation,  so  far  as  assent  or  pertinent  ques- 
tions are  involved.  He  abused  his  liberty  on  this  oc- 
casion by  presuming  to  say  that  Leibnitz  had  the 
same  observation.  — No,  sir,  I replied,  he  has  not. 
But  he  said  a mighty  good  thing  about  mathematics, 
that  sounds  something  like  it,  and  you  found  it,  not 
in  the  original.,  but  quoted  by  Dr.  Thomas  Reid.  I 
will  tell  the  company  what  he  did  say,  one  of  these 
days. 


1 


2 THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


— If  I belong  to  a Society  of  Mutual  Admiration  ? 

■ — I blush  to  say  that  I do  not  at  this  present  moment. 
I once  did,  however.  It  was  the  first  association  to 
which  I ever  heard  the  term  applied ; a body  of  scien- 
tific young  men  in  a great  foreign  city  “ who  admired 
their  teacher,  and  to  some  extent  each  other.  Many 
of  them  deserved  it ; they  have  become  famous  since. 
It  amuses  me  to  hear  the  talk  of  one  of  those  beings 
described  by  Thackeray  — 

“ Letters  four  do  form  his  name  — 
about  a social  development  which  belongs  to  the  very 
noblest  stage  of  civilization.  All  generous  companies 

® The  “body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a great  foreign  city  ’’ 
was  the  Societe  d’ Observation  Medicale,  of  Paris,  of  which  M. 
Louis  was  president,  and  MM.  Barth,  Grisotte,  and  our  own 
Dr.  Bowditch  were  members.  They  agreed  in  admiring  their 
justly-honored  president,  and  thought  highly  of  some  of  their 
associates,  who  have  since  made  good  their  promise  of  distinc- 
tion. 

About  the  time  when  these  papers  were  published,  the  Sat- 
urday Club  was  founded,  or,  rather,  found  itself  in  existence, 
without  any  organization,  almost  without  parentage.  It  was 
natural  enough  that  such  men  as  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Agassiz, 
Peirce,  with  Hawthorne,  Motley,  Sumner,  when  within  reach, 
and  others  who  would  be  good  company  for  them,  should  meet 
and  dine  together  once  in  a while,  as  they  did,  in  point  of  fact, 
every  month,  and  as  some  who  are  still  living,  with  other  and 
newer  members,  still  meet  and  dine.  If  some  of  them  had  not 
admired  each  other  they  would  have  been  exceptions  in  the 
world  of  letters  and  science.  The  club  deserves  being  remem- 
bered for  having  no  constitution  or  by-laws,  for  making  no 
speeches,  reading  no  papers,  observing  no  ceremonies,  coming 
and  going  at  will  without  remark,  and  acting  out,  though  it  did 
not  proclaim  the  motto,  “ Shall  I not  take  mine  ease  in  mine 
inn  ? ” There  was  and  is  nothing  of  the  Bohemian  element 
about  this  club,  but  it  has  had  many  good  times  and  not  a little 
good  talking. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  3 

of  artists,  authors,  philanthropists,  men  of  science, 
are,  or  ought  to  be.  Societies  of  Mutual  Admiration. 
A man  of  genius,  or  any  kind  of  superiority,  is  not 
debarred  from  admiring  the  same  quality  in  another, 
nor  the  other  from  returning  his  admiration.  They 
may  even  associate  together  and  continue  to  think 
highly  of  each  other.  And  so  of  a dozen  such  men, 
if  any  one  place  is  fortunate  enough  to  hold  so  many. 
The  being  referred  to  above  assumes  several  false 
premises.  First,  that  men  of  talent  necessarily  hate 
each  other.  Secondly,  that  intimate  knowledge  or 
habitual  association  destroys  our  admiration  of 
persons  whom  we  esteemed  highly  at  a distance. 
Thirdly,  that  a circle  of  clever  fellows,  who  meet 
together  to  dine  and  have  a good  time,  have  signed 
a constitutional  compact  to  glorify  themselves  and  to 
put  down  him  and  the  fraction  of  the  human  race 
not  belonging  to  their  number.  Fourthly,  that  it  is 
an  outrage  that  he  is  not  asked  to  join  them. 

Here  the  company  laughed  a good  deal,  and  the 
old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  said  : ‘‘  That ’s  it ! 
that ’s  it ! ” 

I continued,  for  I was  in  the  talking  vein.  As  to 
clever  people’s  hating  each  other,  I think  a little 
extra  talent  does  sometimes  make  people  jealous. 
They  become  irritated  by  perpetual  attempts  and 
failures,  and  it  hurts  their  tempers  and  dispositions. 
Unpretending  mediocrity  is  good,  and  genius  is 
glorious;  but  a weak  flavor  of  genius  in  an  essen- 
tially common  person  is  detestable.  It  spoils  the 
grand  neutrality  of  a commonplace  character,  as  the 
rinsings  of  an  unwashed  wine-glass  spoil  a draught 
of  fair  water.  No  wonder  the  poor  fellow  we  spoke 
of,  who  always  belongs  to  this  class  of  slightly 


4 THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

flavored  mediocrities,  is  puzzled  and  vexed  by  the 
strange  sight  of  a dozen  men  of  capacity  working 
and  playing  together  in  harmony.  He  and  his  fel- 
lows are  always  fighting.  With  them  familiarity 
naturally  breeds  contempt.  If  they  ever  praise  each 
other’s  bad  drawings,  or  broben-winded  novels,  or 
spavined  verses,  nobody  ever  supposed  it  was  from 
admiration ; it  was  simply  a contract  between  them- 
selves and  a publisher  or  dealer. 

If  the  Mutuals  have  really  nothing  among  them 
worth  admiring,  that  alters  the  question.  But  if  they 
are  men  with  noble  powers  and  qualities,  let  me  tell 
you  that,  next  to  youthful  love  and  family  affections, 
there  is  no  human  sentiment  better  than  that  which 
unites  the  Societies  of  Mutual  Admiration.  And 
what  would  literature  or  art  be  without  such  associa- 
tions? Who  can  teU  what  we  owe  to  the  Mutual 
Admiration  Society  of  which  Shakespeare,  and  Ben 
J onson,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  members  ? 
Or  to  that  of  which  Addison  and  Steele  formed  the 
centre,  and  which  gave  us  the  Spectator?  Or  to 
that  where  J ohnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Burke,  and 
Eeynolds,  and  Beauclerk,  and  Boswell,  most  admir- 
ing among  all  admirers,  met  together?  Was  there 
any  great  harm  in  the  fact  that  the  Irvings  and 
Paulding  wrote  in  company  ? or  any  unpardonable 
cabal  in  the  literary  union  of  Verplanck  and  Bryant 
and  Sands,  and  as  many  more  as  they  chose  to  asso- 
ciate with  them  ? 

The  poor  creature  does  not  know  what  he  is  talk- 
ing about  when  he  abuses  this  noblest  of  institutions. 
Let  him  inspect  its  mysteries  through  the  knot-hole 
he  has  secured,  but  not  use  that  orifice  as  a medimn 
for  his  popgun.  Such  a society  is  the  crown  of  a 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  5 

literary  metropolis;  if  a town  has  not  material  for 
it,  and  spirit  and  good  feeling  enough  to  organize  it, 
it  is  a mere  caravansary,  fit  for  a man  of  genius  to 
lodge  in,  but  not  to  live  in.  Foolish  people  hate  and 
dread  and  envy  such  an  association  of  men  of  varied 
powers  and  influence,  because  it  is  lofty,  serene,  im- 
pregnable, and,  by  the  necessity  of  the  case,  exclusive. 
Wise  ones  are  prouder  of  the  title  M.  S.  M.  A.  than 
of  all  their  other  honors  put  together. 

— All  generous  minds  have  a horror  of  what  are 
commonly  called  ‘‘  facts.”  They  are  the  brute  beasts 
of  the  intellectual  domain.  Who  does  not  know 
fellows  that  always  have  an  ill-conditioned  fact  or 
two  which  they  lead  after  them  into  decent  company 
like  so  many  bull-dogs,  ready  to  let  them  slip  at 
every  ingenious  suggestion,  or  convenient  generaliza- 
tion, or  pleasant  fancy  ? I allow  no  ‘‘  facts  ” at  this 
table.  What ! Because  bread  is  good  and  whole- 
some, and  necessary  and  nourishing,  shall  you  thrust 
a crumb  into  my  windpipe  while  I am  talking  ? Do 
not  these  muscles  of  mine  represent  a hundred  loaves 
of  bread  ? and  is  not  my  thought  the  abstract  of  ten 
thousand  of  these  crumbs  of  truth  with  which  you 
would  choke  off  my  speech  ? 

[The  above  remark  must  be  conditioned  and  quali- 
fied for  the  vulgar  mind.  The  reader  will,  of  course, 
understand  the  precise  amount  of  seasoning  which 
must  be  added  to  it  before  he  adopts  it  as  one  of 
the  axioms  of  his  life.  The  speaker  disclaims  all 
responsibility  for  its  abuse  in  incompetent  hands.] 

This  business  of  conversation  is  a very  serious 
matter.  There  are  men  whom  it  weakens  one  to  talk 
with  an  hour  more  than  a day’s  fasting  would  do. 
Mark  this  which  I am  going  to  say,  for  it  is  as  good 


6 THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

as  a working  professional  man’s  advice,  and  costs  you 
nothing:  It  is  better  to  lose  a pint  of  blood  from 
your  veins  than  to  have  a nerve  tapped.  Nobody 
measures  your  nervous  force  as  it  runs  away,  nor 
bandages  your  brain  and  marrow  after  the  operation. 

There  are  men  of  esprit  who  are  excessively  ex- 
hausting to  some  people.  They  are  the  talkers  who 
have  what  may  be  called  jerhy  minds.  Their 
thoughts  do  not  run  in  the  natural  order  of  sequence. 
They  say  bright  things  on  all  possible  subjects,  but 
their  zigzags  rack  you  to  death.  After  a jolting  half- 
hour  with  one  of  these  jerky  companions,  talking  with 
a dull  friend  affords  great  relief.  It  is  like  taking 
the  cat  in  your  lap  after  holding  a squirrel. 

What  a comfort  a dull  but  kindly  person  is,  to  be 
sure,  at  times!  A ground-glass  shade  over  a gas- 
lamp  does  not  bring  more  solace  to  our  dazzled  eyes 
than  such  a one  to  our  minds. 

Do  not  dull  people  bore  you?”  said  one  of  the 
lady-boarders, — the  same  who  sent  me  her  autograph* 
book  last  week  with  a request  for  a few  original 
stanzas,  not  remembering  that  The  Pactolian  ” pays 
me  five  dollars  a line  for  every  thing  I write  in  its 
columns. 

Madam,”  said  I (she  and  the  century  were  in 
their  teens  together),  all  men  are  bores,  except  when 
we  want  them.  There  never  was  but  one  man  whom 
I would  trust  with  my  latch-key.” 

‘‘  Who  might  that  favored  person  be  ? ” 

Zimmermann.”  " 

— The  men  of  genius  that  I fancy  most,  have 

® The  “ Treatise  on  Solitude  is  not  so  frequently  seen  lying 
about  on  library  tables  as  in  our  younger  days.  I remember 
that  I always  respected  the  title  and  let  the  book  alone. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  7 

erectile  heads  like  the  cobra-di-capello.  You  remem- 
ber what  they  tell  of  William  Pinkney,  the  great 
pleader ; how  in  his  eloquent  paroxysms  the  veins  of 
his  neck  would  swell  and  his  face  flush  and  his  eyes 
glitter,  until  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  apoplexy. 
The  hydraulic  arrangements  for  supplying  the  brain 
with  blood  are  only  second  in  importance  to  its  own 
organization.  The  bulbous-headed  fellows  who  steam 
well  when  they  are  at  work  are  the  men  that  draw 
big  audiences  and  give  us  marrowy  books  and  pic- 
tures. It  is  a good  sign  to  have  one’s  feet  grow  cold 
when  he  is  writing.  A great  writer  and  speaker 
once  told  me  that  he  often  wrote  with  his  feet  in  hot 
water ; but  for  this,  all  his  blood  would  have  run  into 
his  head,  as  the  mercury  sometimes  withdraws  into 
the  ball  of  a thermometer. 

— You  don’t  suppose  that  my  remarks  made  at  this 
table  are  like  so  many  postage-stamps,  do  you, — each 
to  be  only  once  uttered?  If  you  do,  you  are  mis- 
taken. He  must  be  a poor  creature  who  does  not 
often  repeat  himself.  Imagine  the  author  of  the  ex- 
cellent piece  of  advice,  ^‘Know  thyself,”  never  allud- 
ing to  that  sentiment  again  during  the  course  of  a 
protracted  existence ! Why,  the  truths  a man  carries 
about  with  him  are  his  tools ; and  do  you  think  a car- 
penter is  bound  to  use  the  same  plane  but  once  to 
smooth  a knotty  board  with,  or  to  hang  up  his  ham- 
mer after  it  has  driven  its  first  nail?  I shall  never 
repeat  a conversation,  but  an  idea  often.  I shall  use 
the  same  types  when  I like,  but  not  commonly  the 
same  stereotypes.  A thought  is  often  original,  though 
you  have  uttered  it  a hundred  times.  It  has  come  to 
you  over  a new  route,  by  a new  and  express  train  of 
associations. 


8 THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  one  may  be  caught  making 
the  same  speech  twice  over,  and  yet  be  held  blame- 
less. Thus,  a certain  lecturer,  after  performing  in  an 
inland  city,  where  dwells  a Litteratrice  of  note,  was 
invited  to  meet  her  and  others  over  the  social  teacup. 
She  pleasantly  referred  to  his  many  wanderings  in  his 
new  occupation.  ‘‘Yes,”  he  replied,  “I  am  like  the 
Huma,"  the  bird  that  never  lights,  being  always  in  the 
cars,  as  he  is  always  on  the  wing.”  — Years  elapsed. 
The  lecturer  visited  the  same  place  once  more  for  the 
same  purpose.  Another  social  cup  after  the  lecture, 
and  a second  meeting  with  the  distinguished  lady. 
“You  are  constantly  going  from  place  to  place,”  she 
said.  — “ Yes,”  he  answered,  “ I am  like  the  Huma,” 
— and  finished  the  sentence  as  before. 

What  horrors,  when  it  fiashed  over  him  that  he  had 
made  this  fine  speech,  word  for  word,  twice  over! 
Yet  it  was  not  true,  as  the  lady  might  perhaps  have 
fairly  inferred,  that  he  had  embellished  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  Huma  daily  during  that  whole  interval  of 
years.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  never  once  thought  of 
the  odious  fowl  until  the  recurrence  of  precisely  the 
same  circumstances  brought  up  precisely  the  same 
idea.  He  ought  to  have  been  proud  of  the  accuracy 
of  his  mental  adjustments.  Given  certain  factors,  and 
a sound  brain  should  always  evolve  the  same  fixed 
product  with  the  certainty  of  Babbage’s  calculating 
machine. 

® It  was  an  agreeable  incident  of  two  consecutive  visits  to 
Hartford,  Conn.,  that  I met  there  the  late  Mrs.  Sigourney.  The 
second  meeting  recalled  the  first,  and  with  it  the  allusion  to  the 
Huma,  which  bird  is  the  subject  of  a short  poem  by  another 
New  England  authoress,  which  may  be  found  in  Mr.  Griswold’s 
collection. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  9 

— What  a satire,  by  the  way,  is  that  machine  on 
the  mere  mathematician ! A Frankenstein-monster,  a 
thing  without  brains  and  without  heart,  too  stupid  to 
make  a blunder ; which  turns  out  results  like  a corn- 
sheller,  and  never  grows  any  wiser  or  better,  though  it 
grind  a thousand  bushels  of  them  ! 

I have  an  immense  respect  for  a man  of  talents  'plus 
‘‘  the  mathematics.”  But  the  calculating  power  alone 
should  seem  to  be  the  least  human  of  qualities,  and  to 
have  the  smallest  amount  of  reason  in  it ; since  a 
machine  can  be  made  to  do  the  work  of  three  or  four 
calculators,  and  better  than  any  one  of  them.  Some- 
times I have  been  troubled  that  I had  not  a deeper  in- 
tuitive apprehension  of  the  relations  of  numbers.  But 
the  triumph  of  the  ciphering  hand-organ  has  consoled 
me.  I always  fancy  I can  hear  the  wheels  clicking  in 
a calculator’s  brain.  The  power  of  dealing  with  num- 
bers is  a kind  of  detached  lever  ” arrangement,  which 
may  be  put  into  a mighty  poor  watch.  I suppose  it  is 
about  as  common  as  the  power  of  moving  the  ears  vol- 
untarily, which  is  a moderately  rare  endowment. 

— Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow  streaks 
of  specialized  knowledge,  are  things  men  are  very  apt 
to  be  conceited  about.  Nature  is  very  wise ; but  for 
this  encouraging  principle  how  many  small  talents 
and  little  accomplishments  would  be  neglected ! Talk 
about  conceit  as  much  as  you  like,  it  is  to  human 
character  what  salt  is  to  the  ocean  ; it  keeps  it  sweet, 
and  renders  it  endurable.  Say  rather  it  is  like  the 
natural  unguent  of  the  sea-fowl’s  plumage,  which  ena- 
bles him  to  shed  the  rain  that  falls  on  him  and  the 
wave  in  which  he  dips.  When  one  has  had  all  his 
conceit  taken  out  of  him,  when  he  has  lost  all  his  illu- 
sions, his  feathers  will  soon  soak  through,  and  he  will 
fly  no  more. 


10  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


‘‘So  you  admire  conceited  people,  do  you?”  said 
the  young  lady  who  has  come  to  the  city  to  be  finished 
off  for  — the  duties  of  life. 

I am  afraid  you  do  not  study  logic  at  your  school, 
my  dear.  It  does  not  follow  that  I wish  to  be  pickled 
in  brine  because  I like  a salt-water  plunge  at  Nahant. 
I say  that  conceit  is  just  as  natural  a thing  to  human 
minds  as  a centre  is  to  a circle.  But  little-minded 
people’s  thoughts  move  in  such  small  circles  that  five 
minutes’  conversation  gives  you  an  arc  long  enough  to 
determine  their  whole  curve.  An  arc  in  the  move- 
ment of  a large  intellect  does  not  sensibly  differ  from 
a straight  line.  Even  if  it  have  the  third  vowel  as 
its  centre,  it  does  not  soon  betray  it.  The  highest 
thought,  that  is,  is  the  most  seemingly  impersonal ; it 
does  not  obviously  imply  any  individual  centre. 

Audacious  self-esteem,  with  good  ground  for  it,  is 
always  imposing.  What  resplendent  beauty  that 
must  have  been  which  could  have  authorized  Phryne 
to  “ peel  ” in  the  way  she  did  ! What  fine  speeches 
are  those  two:  “Wo7^  omnis  moriar^''  and “ I have 
taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province  ” ! Even  in 
common  people,  conceit  has  the  virtue  of  making  them 
cheerful ; the  man  who  thinks  his  wife,  his  baby,  his 
house,  his  horse,  his  dog,  and  himself  severally  une- 
qualled, is  almost  sure  to  be  a good-humored  person, 
though  liable  to  be  tedious  at  times. 

— What  are  the  great  faults  of  conversation  ? 
Want  of  ideas,  want  of  words,  want  of  manners,  are 
the  principal  ones,  I suppose  you  think.  I don’t 
doubt  it,  but  I will  tell  you  what  I have  found  spoil 
more  good  talks  than  anything  else  ; — long  argu- 
ments on  special  points  between  people  who  differ  on 
the  fundamental  principles  upon  which  these  points 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  11 

depend.  No  men  can  have  satisfactory  relations  with 
each  other  until  they  have  agreed  on  certain  ultimata 
of  belief  not  to  be  disturbed  in  ordinary  conversation, 
and  unless  they  have  sense  enough  to  trace  the  second- 
ary questions  depending  upon  these  ultimate  beliefs  to 
their  source.  In  short,  just  as  a written  constitution 
is  essential  to  the  best  social  order,  so  a code  of  final- 
ities is  a necessary  condition  of  profitable  talk  between 
two  persons.  Talking  is  like  playing  on  the  harp ; 
there  is  as  much  in  laying  the  hand  on  the  strings  to 
stop  their  vibrations  as  in  twanging  them  to  bring  out 
their  music. 

— Do  you  mean  to  say  the  pun-question  is  not 
clearly  settled  in  your  minds  ? Let  me  lay  down  the 
law  upon  the  subject.  Life  and  language  are  alike 
sacred.  Homicide  and  verhicide  — that  is,  violent 
treatment  of  a word  with  fatal  results  to  its  legitimate 
meaning,  which  is  its  life  — are  alike  forbidden. 
Manslaughter,  which  is  the  meaning  of  the  one,  is  the 
same  as  man’s  laughter,  which  is  the  end  of  the  other. 
A pun  is  primd  facie  an  insult  to  the  person  you  are 
talking  with.  It  implies  utter  indifference  to  or  sub- 
lime contempt  for  his  remarks,  no  matter  how  serious. 
I speak  of  total  depravity,  and  one  says  all  that  is 
written  on  the  subject  is  deep  raving.  I have  commit- 
ted my  self-respect  by  talking  with  such  a person.  I 
should  like  to  commit  him,  but  cannot,  because  he  is  a 
nuisance.  Or  I speak  of  geological  convulsions,  and 
he  asks  me  what  was  the  cosine  of  Noah’s  ark;  also, 
whether  the  Deluge  was  not  a deal  huger  than  any 
modern  inundation. 

A pun  does  not  commonly  justify  a blow  in  return. 
But  if  a blow  were  given  for  such  cause,  and  death 
ensued,  the  jury  would  be  judges  both  of  the  facts  and 


12  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  the  pun,  and  might,  if  the  latter  were  of  an  aggrar 
vated  character,  return  a verdict  of  justifiable  homi- 
cide. Thus,  in  a case  lately  decided  before  Miller,  J., 
Doe  presented  Koe  a subscription  paper,  and  urged 
the  claims  of  suffering  humanity.  Roe  replied  by 
asking.  When  charity  was  like  a top  ? It  was  in  evi- 
dence that  Doe  preserved  a dignified  silence.  Roe 
then  said,  ‘‘  When  it  begins  to  hum.’’  Doe  then  — 
and  not  till  then  — struck  Roe,  and  his  head  happen- 
ing to  hit  a bound  volmne  of  the  Monthly  Rag-Bag 
and  Stolen  Miscellany,  intense  mortification  ensued, 
with  a fatal  result.  The  chief  laid  down  his  notions 
of  the  law  to  his  brother  justices,  who  unanimously 
replied,  “Jest  so.”  The  chief  rejoined,  that  no  man 
should  jest  so  without  being  punished  for  it,  and 
charged  for  the  prisoner,  who  was  acquitted,  and  the 
pun  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  sheriff.  The  bound 
volume  was  forfeited  as  a deodand,  but  not  claimed. 

People  that  make  puns  are  like  wanton  boys  that 
put  coppers  on  the  railroad  tracks.  They  amuse 
themselves  and  other  children,  but  their  little  trick 
may  upset  a freight  train  of  conversation  for  the  sake 
of  a battered  witticism. 

I will  thank  you,  B.  F.,  to  bring  down  two  books, 
of  which  I will  mark  the  places  on  this  slip  of  paper. 
(While  he  is  gone,  I may  say  that  this  boy,  our  land- 
lady’s youngest,  is  called  Benjamin  Franklin,  after 
the  celebrated  philosopher  of  that  name.  A highly 
merited  compliment.) 

I wished  to  refer  to  two  eminent  authorities.  Now 
be  so  good  as  to  listen.  The  great  moralist  sayS : “To 
trifie  with  the  vocabulary  which  is  the  vehicle  of  so- 
cial intercourse  is  to  tamper  with  the  currency  of 
human  intelligence.  He  who  would  violate  the  sano 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  13 

titles  of  his  mother  tongue  would  invade  the  recesses 
of  the  paternal  till  without  remorse,  and  repeat  the 
banquet  of  Saturn  without  an  indigestion.” 

And,  once  more,  listen  to  the  historian.  ^^The  Pu- 
ritans hated  puns.  The  Bishops  were  notoriously  ad- 
dicted to  them.  The  Lords  Temporal  carried  them 
to  the  verge  of  license.  Majesty  itself  must  have  its 
Royal  quibble.  ‘ Ye  be  burly,  my  Lord  of  Burleigh,’ 
said  Queen  Elizabeth,  ‘ but  ye  shall  make  less  stir  in 
our  realm  than  my  Lord  of  Leicester.’  The  gravest 
wisdom  and  the  highest  breeding  lent  their  sanction 
to  the  practice.  Lord  Bacon  playfully  declared  him- 
self a descendant  of  ’Og,  the  King  of  Bashan.  Sir 
Pliilip  Sidney,  with  his  last  breath,  reproached  the 
soldier  who  brought  him  water,  for  wasting  a casque 
full  upon  a dying  man.  A courtier,  who  saw  Othello 
performed  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  remarked,  that  the 
blackamoor  was  a brute,  and  not  a man.  ‘ Thou  hast 
reason,’  replied  a great  Lord,  ‘according  to  Plato  his 
saying ; for  this  be  a two-legged  animal  with  feath- 
ers.’ The  fatal  habit  became  universal.  The  lan- 
guage was  corrupted.  The  infection  spread  to  the 
national  conscience.  Political  double-dealings  natu- 
rally grew  out  of  verbal  double  meanings.  The  teeth 
of  the  new  dragon  were  sown  by  the  Cadmus  who  in- 
troduced the  alphabet  of  equivocation.  What  was 
levity  in  the  time  of  the  Tudors  grew  to  regicide  and 
revolution  in  the  age  of  the  Stuarts.” 

Who  was  that  boarder  that  just  whispered  some- 
thing about  the  Macaulay-flowers  of  literature  ? — 
There  was  a dead  silence.  — I said  calmly,  I shall 
henceforth  consider  any  interruption  by  a pun  as  a 
hint  to  change  my  boarding-house.  Do  not  plead  my 
example.  If  I have  used  any  such,  it  has  been  only 


14  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE." 


as  a Spartan  father  would  show  up  a drunken  helot. 
W e have  done  with  them. 

— If  a logical  mind  ever  found  out  anything  with 
its  logic  ? — I should  say  that  its  most  frequent  work 
was  to  build  a pons  asinorum  over  chasms  which 
shrewd  people  can  bestride  without  such  a structure. 
You  can  hire  logic,  in  the  shape  of  a lawyer,  to  prove 
anything  that  you  want  to  prove.  You  can  buy  trea- 
tises to  show  that  Napoleon  never  lived,  and  that  no 
battle  of  Bunker-hill  was  ever  fought.  The  great 
minds  are  those  with  a wide  span,®  which  couple 
truths  related  to,  but  far  removed  from,  each  other. 
Logicians  carry  the  surveyor’s  chain  over  the  track  of 
which  these  are  the  true  explorers.  I value  a man 
mainly  for  his  primary  relations  with  truth,  as  I un- 
derstand truth,  — not  for  any  secondary  artifice  in 
handling  his  ideas.  Some  of  the  sharpest  men  in  ar- 
gument are  notoriously  unsound  in  judgment.  I 
should  not  trust  the  counsel  of  a clever  debater,  any 
more  than  that  of  a good  chess-player.  Either  may 
of  course  advise  wisely,  but  not  necessarily  because  he 
wrangles  or  plays  well. 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  got  his  hand 
up,  as  a pointer  lifts  his  forefoot,  at  the  expression, 
“ his  relations  with  truth,  as  I understand  truth,”  and 
when  I had  done,  sniffed  audibly,  and  said  I talked 
like  a transcendentalist.  For  his  part,  common  sense 
was  good  enough  for  him. 

Precisely  so,  my  dear  sir,  I replied  ; common  sense, 
as  you  understand  it.  We  all  have  to  assume  a 
standard  of  judgment  in  our  own  minds,  either  of 
things  or  persons.  A man  who  is  willing  to  take 

“ There  is  something  like  this  in  J.  H.  Newman’s  Grammar  0} 
Assent,  See  Characteristics^  arranged  by  W.  S.  Lilly,  p.  81. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  15 

another’s  opinion  has  to  exercise  his  judgment  in  the 
choice  of  whom  to  follow,  which  is  often  as  nice  a 
matter  as  to  judge  of  things  for  one’s  self.  On  the 
whole,  I had  rather  judge  men’s  minds  by  comparing 
their  thoughts  with  my  own,  than  judge  of  thoughts 
by  knowing  who  utter  them.  I must  do  one  or  the 
other.  It  does  not  follow,  of  course,  that  I may  not 
recognize  another  man’s  thoughts  as  broader  and 
deeper  than  my  own  ; but  that  does  not  necessarily 
change  my  opinion,  otherwise  this  would  be  at  the 
mercy  of  every  superior  mind  that  held  a different 
one.  How  many  of  our  most  cherished  beliefs  are 
like  those  drinking-glasses  of  the  ancient  pattern,  that 
serve  us  well  so  long  as  we  keep  them  in  our  hand, 
but  spill  all  if  we  attempt  to  set  them  down ! I have 
sometimes  compared  conversation  to  the  Italian  game 
of  mora^  in  which  one  player  lifts  his  hand  with  so 
many  fingers  extended,  and  the  other  gives  the  num- 
ber if  he  can.  I show  my  thought,  another  his , if 
they  agree,  well ; if  they  differ,  we  find  the  largest 
common  factor,  if  we  can,  but  at  any  rate  avoid  dis- 
puting about  remainders  and  fractions,  which  is  to 
real  talk  what  tuning  an  instrument  is  to  playing 
on  it. 

— What  if,  instead  of  talking  this  morning,  I 
should  read  you  a copy  of  verses,  with  critical  re- 
marks by  the  author  ? Any  of  the  company  can  re- 
tire that  like. 

ALBUM  VERSES. 

When  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 

And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 

Agreed  with  one  another 


16 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLEe 


To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter’s  art, 

And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 

By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 
Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 

A million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a warning; 

And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 

The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening  dawn 
Till  western  skies  are  burning. 


Alas!  each  hour  of  daylight  tells 
A tale  of  shame  so  crushing. 

That  some  turn  white  as  sea-bleached  shells, 

And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 
On  all  their  light  discovers, 

The  traitor’s  smile,  the  murderer’s  frown. 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers, 

They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 

And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies. 

And  so  they  wink  forever, 

What  do  you  think  of  these  verses,  my  friends  ? — 
Is  that  piece  an  impromptu  ? said  my  landlady’s 
daughter.  (Aet.  19 -f-.  Tender-eyed  blonde.  Long 

ringlets.  Cameo  pin.  Gold  pencil-case  on  a chain. 
Locket.  Bracelet.  Album.  Autograph  book.  Ac- 
cordeon.  Reads  Byron,  Tupper,  and  Sylvanus  Cobb, 
Junior,  while  her  mother  makes  the  puddings.  Says 
Yes  ? ” when  you  tell  her  anything.)  — Oui  et  non^ 
ma  petite^ — Yes  and  no,  my  child.  Five  of  the  seven 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  17 

verses  were  written  off-hand;  the  other  two  took  a 
week,  — that  is,  were  hanging  round  the  desk  in  a 
ragged,  forlorn,  unrhymed  condition  as  long  as  that. 
All  poets  will  tell  you  just  such  stories.  C'^est  le 
DERNIER  pas  qui  coute.  Don’t  you  know  how  hard  it 
is  for  some  people  to  get  out  of  a room  after  their 
visit  is  really  over?  They  want  to  be  off,  and  you 
want  to  have  them  off,  but  they  don’t  know  how  to 
manage  it.  One  would  think  they  had  been  built  in 
your  parlor  or  study,  and  were  waiting  to  be  launched. 
I have  contrived  a sort  of  ceremonial  inclined  plane 
for  such  visitors,  which  being  lubricated  with  certain 
smooth  phrases,  I back  them  down,  metaphorically 
speaking,  stern-foremost,  into  their  “ native  element,” 
the  great  ocean  of  out-doors.  Well,  now,  there  are 
poems  as  hard  to  get  rid  of  as  these  rural  visitors. 
They  come  in  glibly,  use  up  all  the  serviceable 
rhymes,  day^  ray^  beauty^  duty^  sldes^  otJier^ 

brother^  mountain^  fountain^  and  the  like;  and  so 
they  go  on  until  you  think  it  is  time  for  the  wind-up, 
and  the  wind-up  won’t  come  on  any  terms.  So  they 
lie  about  until  you  get  sick  of  the  sight  of  them,  and 
end  by  thrusting  some  cold  scrap  of  a final  couplet 
upon  them,  and  turning  them  out  of  doors.  I suspect 
a good  many  ‘‘impromptus”  could  tell  just  such  a 
story  as  the  above.  — Here  turning  to  our  landlady,  I 
used  an  illustration  which  pleased  the  company  much 
at  the  time,  and  has  since  been  highly  commended. 
“ Madam,”  I said,  “ you  can  pour  three  gills  and  three 
quarters  of  honey  from  that  pint  jug,  if  it  is  full,  in 
less  than  one  minute ; but.  Madam,  you  could  not 
empty  that  last  quarter  of  a gill,  though  you  were 
turned  into  a marble  Hebe,  and  held  the  vessel  upside 
down  for  a thousand  years.” 

2 


18  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

One  gets  tired  to  death  of  the  old,  old  rhymes,  such 
as  you  see  in  that  copy  of  verses,  — which  I don’t 
mean  to  abuse,  or  to  praise  either.  I always  feel  as  if 
I were  a cobbler,  putting  new  top-leathers  to  an  old 
pair  of  boot-soles  and  bodies,  when  I am  fitting  senti- 
ments to  these  venerable  jingles. 

youth 

• • • • • • . . morning 

truth 

• warning. 

Nine  tenths  of  the  “Juvenile  Poems”  written 
spring  out  of  the  above  musical  and  suggestive  coinci- 
dences. 

“Yes?”  said  our  landlady’s  daughter. 

I did  not  address  the  following  remark  to  her,  and 
I trust,  from  her  limited  range  of  reading,  she  will 
never  see  it ; I said  it  softly  to  my  next  neighbor. 

When  a young  female  wears  a flat  circular  side- 
curl,  gummed  on  each  temple,  — when  she  walks  vdtli 
a male,  not  arm  in  arm,  but  his  arm  against  the  back 
of  hers,  — and  when  she  says  “Yes?”  with  the  note 
of  interrogation,  you  are  generally  safe  in  asking  her 
what  wages  she  gets,  and  who  the  “ feller  ” was  you 
saw  her  with. 

“What  were  you  whispering ? ” said  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  moistening  her  lips,  as  she  spoke,  in  a 
very  engaging  manner. 

“ I was  only  laying  down  a principle  of  social  diag- 
nosis.” 

“Yes?” 

— It  is  curious  to  see  how  the  same  wants  and 
tastes  find  the  same  implements  and  modes  of  expres- 
sion in  all  times  and  places.  The  young  ladies  of  Ota- 
heite,  as  you  may  see  in  Cook’s  Voyages,  had  a sort 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  19 

of  crinoline  arrangement  fully  equal  in  radius  to  the 
largest  spread  of  our  own  lady-baskets.  When  I 
fling  a Bay-State  shawl  over  my  shoulders,  I am  only 
taking  a lesson  from  the  climate  which  the  Indian  had 
learned  before  me.  A hlanhet-^h3iw\  we  call  it,  and 
not  a plaid ; and  we  wear  it  like  the  aborigines,  and 
not  like  the  Highlanders. 

— We  are  the  Romans  of  the  modern  world,  — the 
great  assimilating  people.  Conflicts  and  conquests 
are  of  course  necessary  accidents  with  us,  as  with  our 
prototypes.  And  so  we  come  to  their  style  of  weapon. 
Our  army  sword  is  the  short,  stiff,  pointed  gladius  of 
the  Romans ; and  the  American  bowie-knife  is  the 
same  tool,  modified  to  meet  the  daily  wants  of  civil  so- 
ciety. I announce  at  this  table  an  axiom  not  to  be 
found  in  Montesquieu  or  the  journals  of  Congress : — 

The  race  that  shortens  its  weapons  lengthens  its 
boundaries. 

Corollary.  It  was  the  Polish  lance  that  left  Po- 
land at  last  with  nothing  of  her  own  to  bound. 

‘‘  Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear  ! 

What  business  had  Sarmatia  to  be  fighting  for  lib- 
erty with  a fifteen-foot  pole  between  her  and  the 
breasts  of  her  enemies  ? If  she  had  but  clutched  the 
old  Roman  and  young  American  weapon,  and  come  to 
close  quarters,  there  might  have  been  a chance  for 
her;  but  it  would  have  spoiled  the  best  passage  in 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope.” 

— Self-made  men  ? — W ell,  yes.  Of  course  every 
body  likes  and  respects  self-made  men.  It  is  a great 
deal  better  to  be  made  in  that  way  than  not  to  be 
made  at  all.  Are  any  of  you  younger  people  old 
enough  to  remember  that  Irishman’s  house  on  the 


20  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


marsh  at  Cambridgeport,  which  house  he  built  from 
drain  to  chimney-top  with  his  own  hands?  It  took 
him  a good  many  years  to  build  it,  and  one  could  see 
that  it  was  a little  out  of  plumb,  and  a little  wavy  in 
outline,  and  a little  queer  and  uncertain  in  general 
aspect.  A regular  hand  could  certainly  have  built  a 
better  house;  but  it  was  a very  good  house  for  a 

self-made  ” carpenter’s  house,  and  people  praised  it, 
and  said  how  remarkably  well  the  Irishman  had  suc- 
ceeded. They  never  thought  of  praising  the  fine 
blocks  of  houses  a little  farther  on. 

Your  self-made  man,  whittled  into  shape  with  his 
own  jack-knife,  deserves  more  credit,  if  that  is  all, 
than  the  regular  engine-turned  article,  shaped  by  the 
most  approved  pattern,  and  French-polished  by  soci- 
ety and  travel.  But  as  to  saying  that  one  is  every 
way  the  equal  of  the  other,  that  is  another  matter. 
The  right  of  strict  social  discrimination  of  all  things 
and  persons,  according  to  their  merits,  native  or  ac- 
quired, is  one  of  the  most  precious  republican  privi- 
leges. I take  the  liberty  to  exercise  it  when  I say 
that,  other  things  being  equals  in  most  relations  of 
life  I prefer  a man  of  family. 

What  do  I mean  by  a man  of  family  ? — O,  I ’ll 
give  you  a general  idea  of  what  I mean.  Let  us  give 
him  a first-rate  fit  out ; it  costs  us  nothing. 

Four  or  five  generations  of  gentlemen  and  gentle- 
women ; among  them  a member  of  his  Majesty’s 
Council  for  the  Province,  a Governor  or  so,  one  or 
two  Doctors  of  Divinity,  a member  of  Congress,  not 
later  than  the  time  of  long  boots  \vith  tassels. 

Family  portraits."  The  member  of  the  Council,  by 

“ The  full-length  pictures  by  Copley  I was  thinking  of  are 
such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  Memorial  Hall  of  Harvard  Univer- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  21 


Smibert.  The  great  merchant-uncle,  by  Copley,  full 
length,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  in  a velvet  cap  and 
flowered  robe,  with  a globe  by  him,  to  show  the  range 
of  his  commercial  transactions,  and  letters  with  large 
red  seals  lying  round,  one  directed  conspicuously  to 
The  Honorable,  etc.,  etc.  Great-grandmother,  by  the 

sity,  but  many  are  to  be  met  with  in  different  parts  of  New  Eng- 
land, sometimes  in  the  possession  of  the  poor  descendants  of  the 
rich  gentlefolks  in  lace  ruffles  and  glistening  satins,  grandees 
and  grand  dames  of  the  ante-Revolutionary  period.  I remember 
one  poor  old  gentleman  who  had  nothing  left  of  his  family  pos- 
sessions but  the  full-length  portraits  of  his  ancestors,  the  Coun- 
sellor and  his  lady,  saying,  with  a gleam  of  the  pleasantry  which 
had  come  down  from  the  days  of  Mather  Byles,  and  “ Balch 
the  Hatter,’^  and  Sigourney,  that  he  fared  not  so  badly  after 
all,  for  he  had  a pair  of  canvas-hacks  every  day  through  the 
whole  year. 

The  mention  of  these  names,  all  of  which  are  mere  traditions 
to  myself  and  my  contemporaries,  reminds  me  of  the  long  suc- 
cession of  wits  and  humorists  whose  companionship  has  been  the 
delight  of  their  generation,  and  who  leave  nothing  on  record  by 
which  they  will  be  remembered ; Yoricks  who  set  the  table  in 
a roar,  story-tellers  who  gave  us  scenes  of  life  in  monologue 
better  than  the  stilted  presentments  of  the  stage,  and  those  al- 
ways welcome  friends  with  social  interior  furnishings,  whose 
smile  provoked  the  wit  of  others  and  whose  rich,  musical  laugh- 
ter was  its  abundant  reward.  Who  among  us  in  my  earlier 
days  ever  told  a story  or  carolled  a rippling  chanson  so  gayly, 
so  easily,  so  charmingly  as  John  Sullivan,  whose  memory  is  like 
the  breath  of  a long  bygone  summer?  Mr.  Arthur  Gilman  has 
left  his  monument  in  the  stately  structures  he  planned;  Mr. 
James  T.  Fields  in  the  pleasant  volumes  full  of  precious  recol- 
lections; but  twenty  or  thirty  years  from  now  old  men  will  tell 
their  boys  that  the  Yankee  story-teller  died  with  the  first,  and 
that  the  chief  of  our  literary  reminiscents,  whose  ideal  portrait 
gallery  reached  from  Wordsworth  to  Swinburne,  left  us  when 
the  second  bowed  his  head  and  fell  on  sleep, no  longer  to  de- 
light the  guests  whom  his  hospitality  gathered  around  him  with 
the  pictures  to  which  his  lips  gave  life  and  action. 


22  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

same  artist ; brown  satin,  lace  very  fine,  bands  super- 
lative ; grand  old  lady,  stiffish,  but  imposing.  Her 
mother,  artist  unknown ; flat,  angular,  hanging 
sleeves  ; parrot  on  fist.  A pair  of  Stuarts,  viz.,  1.  A 
superb,  full-blown,  mediaeval  gentleman,  with  a fiery 
dash  of  Tory  blood  in  his  veins,  tempered  down  with 
that  of  a fine  old  rebel  grandmother,  and  warmed  up 
with  the  best  of  old  India  Madeira ; his  face  is  one 
flame  of  ruddy  sunshine ; his  ruffled  shirt  rushes  out 
of  his  bosom  with  an  impetuous  generosity,  as  if  it 
would  drag  his  heart  after  it ; and  his  smile  is  good 
for  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  the  Hospital,  besides 
ample  bequests  to  all  relatives  and  dependants.  2. 
Lady  of  the  same ; remarkable  cap  ; high  waist,  as  in 
time  of  Empire ; bust  d la  Josephine  ; wisps  of  curls, 
like  celery-tips,  at  sides  of  forehead ; complexion  clear 
and  warm,  like  rose-cordial.  As  for  the  miniatures 
by  Malbone,  we  don’t  count  them  in  the  gallery. 

Books,  too,  with  the  names  of  old  college-students 
in  them,  — family  names  ; — you  will  find  them  at  the 
head  of  their  respective  classes  in  the  days  when  stu- 
dents took  rank  on  the  catalogue  from  their  parents’ 
condition.  Elzevirs,  with  the  Latinized  appellations 
of  youthful  progenitors,  and  Hie  liher  est  mens  on  the 
title-page.  A set  of  Hogarth’s  original  plates.  Pope, 
original  edition,  15  volumes,  London,  1717.  Barrow 
on  the  lower  shelves,  in  folio.  Tillotson  on  the  upper, 
in  a little  dark  platoon  of  octo-decimos. 

Some  family  silver;  a string  of  wedding  and  funerol 
rings;  the  arms  of  the  family  curiously  blazoned;  the 
same  in  worsted,  by  a maiden  aunt. 

If  the  man  of  family  has  an  old  place  to  keep 
these  things  in,  furnished  with  claw-footed  chairs  and 
black  mahogany  tables,  and  tall  bevel-edged  mirrors, 
and  stately  upright  cabinets,  his  outfit  is  complete. 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  23 


No,  my  friends,  I go  (always,  other  things  being 
equal)  for  the  man  who  inherits  family  traditions  and 
the  cumulative  hmnanities  of  at  least  four  or  five  gen- 
erations. Above  all  things,  as  a child,  he  should  have 
tumbled  about  in  a library.  All  men  are  afraid  of 
books,  who  have  not  handled  them  from  infancy.  Do 
you  suppose  our  dear  didascalos  " over  there  ever  read 
Poll  Synopsis^  or  consulted  Castelli  Lexicon^  while 
he  was  growing  up  to  their  stature  ? Not  he ; but 
virtue  passed  through  the  hem  of  their  parchment  and 
leather  garments  whenever  he  touched  them,  as  the 
precious  drugs  sweated  through  the  bat’s  handle  in 
the  Arabian  story.  I tell  you  he  is  at  home  wherever 
he  smells  the  invigorating  fragrance  of  Russia  leather. 
No  self-made  man  feels  so.  One  may,  it  is  true,  have 
all  the  antecedents  I have  spoken  of,  and  yet  be  a 
boor  or  a shabby  fellow.  One  may  have  none  of  them, 
and  yet  be  fit  for  councils  and  courts.  Then  let  them 
change  places.  Our  social  arrangement  has  this  great 
beauty,  that  its  strata  shift  up  and  down  as  they 
change  specific  gravity,  without  being  clogged  by  lay- 
ers of  prescription.  But  I still  insist  on  my  demo- 
cratic liberty  of  choice,  and  I go  for  the  man  with  the 
gallery  of  family  portraits  against  the  one  with  the 
twenty-five-cent  daguerreotype,  unless  I find  out  that 
the  last  is  the  better  of  the  two. 

“‘‘Our  dear  didascalos*’  was  meant  for  Professor  James 
Russell  Lowell,  now  Minister  to  England.  It  requires  the 
union  of  exceptional  native  gifts  and  generations  of  training  to 
bring  the  “ natural  man  ” of  New  England  to  the  completeness 
of  scholarly  manhood,  such  as  that  which  adds  new  distinction 
to  the  name  he  bears,  already  remarkable  for  its  successive  gen- 
erations of  eminent  citizens. 

“ Self-made  ” is  imperfectly  made,  or  education  is  a super- 
fluity and  a failure. 


24  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— I should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the  late 
comet,  if  I had  thought  the  world  was  ripe.  But  it  is 
very  green  yet,  if  I am  not  mistaken ; and  besides, 
there  is  a great  deal  of  coal  to  use  up,  which  I cannot 
bring  myself  to  think  was  made  for  nothing.  If  cer- 
tain things,  which  seem  to  me  essential  to  a millen- 
nium, had  come  to  pass,  I should  have  been  fright- 
ened ; but  they  have  n’t.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to 
hear  my 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 

When  berries,  whortle  — rasp  — and  straw  — 
Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think. 

And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 

From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 

And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience’  sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof. 

Without  a lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  25 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba’s  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret- bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal. 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,— 

When  the  first  locomotive’s  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel’s  bore ; * — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 

And  Miller’s  saints  blow  up  the  globe ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 

Then  order  your  ascension  robe ! 

The  company  seemed  to  like  the  verses,  and  I prom- 
ised them  to  read  others  occasionally,  if  they  had  a 
mind  to  hear  them.  Of  course  they  would  not  expect 
it  every  morning.  Neither  must  the  reader  suppose 
that  all  these  things  I have  reported  were  said  at  any 
one  breakfast-time.  I have  not  taken  the  trouble  to 
date  them,  as  Raspail,  pere^  used  to  date  every  proof 
he  sent  to  the  printer ; but  they  were  scattered  over 
several  breakfasts;  and  I have  said  a good  many 
more  things  since,  which  I shall  very  possibly  print 
some  time  or  other,  if  I am  urged  to  do  it  by  judicious 
friends. 

" This  hoped  for,  but  almost  despaired  of,  event,  occurred  on 
the  9th  of  February,  1875.  The  writer  of  the  above  lines  was 
as  much  pleased  as  his  fellow-citizens  at  the  termination  of  an 
enterprise  which  gave  constant  occasion  for  the  most  inveterate 
pun  on  record.  When  the  other  conditions  referred  to  are  as 
happily  fulfilled  as  this  has  been,  he  will  still  say  as  before, 
that  it  is  time  for  the  ascension  garment  to  be  ordered. 


26  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


I finished  off  with  reading  some  verses  of  my  friend 
the  Professor,  of  whom  you  may  perhaps  hear  more 
by  and  by.  The  Professor  read  them,  he  told  me,  at 
a farewell  meeting,  where  the  youngest  of  our  great 
historians  " met  a few  of  his  many  friends  at  their  in- 
vitation. 

Yes,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him, — though  friendship  may 
claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame ; 

Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 

’T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  who  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel,  — 

As  the  guardsman  who  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of  steel,  — 

As  the  archer  who  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 

He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom 

Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties  shall  bloom, 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glowing  dyes 

That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 

Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 

There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  unsung, 

There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  bequeathed 
From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  freedom  they  breathed  I 
Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 

Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp  with  his  broom! 
^ ^ * 

“ “ The  youngest  of  our  great  historians,’’  referred  to  in  the 
poem,  was  John  Lothrop  Motley.  His  career  of  authorship  was 
as  successful  as  it  was  noble,  and  his  works  are  among  the  chief 
ornaments  of  our  national  literature.  Are  Republics  still  un- 
grateful, as  of  old? 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  27 


The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o’er  mountain  and  lake, 

To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a sea-girdled  shrine, 

With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer’s  jewels  were  trampled  and  crushed  : 
The  True  Knight  of  Learning, — the  world  holds  him 
dear,  — 

Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his  career  I 


II. 

I REALLY  believe  some  people  save  their  bright 
thoughts  as  being  too  precious  for  conversation. 
What  do  you  think  an  admiring  friend  said  the  other 
day  to  one  that  was  talking  good  things,  — good 
enough  to  print?  Why,”  said  he,  ‘‘you  are  wasting 
merchantable  literature,  a cash  article,  at  the  rate,  as 
nearly  as  I can  tell,  of  fifty  dollars  an  hour.”  The 
talker  took  him  to  the  window  and  asked  him  to  look 
out  and  tell  what  he  saw. 

“Nothing  but  a very  dusty  street,”  he  said,  “and  a 
man  driving  a sprinkling-machine  through  it.” 

“ Why  don’t  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that 
water  ? What  would  be  the  state  of  the  highways  of 
life,  if  we  did  not  drive  our  thought-sprinhlers 
through  them  with  the  valves  open,  sometimes  ? 

“ Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talking, 
which  you  forget.  It  shapes  our  thoughts  for  us  ; — 
the  waves  of  conversation  roll  them  as  the  surf  rolls 
the  pebbles  on  the  shore.  Let  me  modify  the  image 
a little.  I rough  out  my  thoughts  in  talk  as  an  artist 
models  in  clay.  Spoken  language  is  so  plastic,  — you 


28  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

can  pat  and  coax,  and  spread  and  shave,  and  rub  out, 
and  fill  up,  and  stick  on  so  easily,  when  you  work  that 
soft  material,  that  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  model- 
ling. Out  of  it  come  the  shapes  which  you  turn  into 
marble  or  bronze  in  your  immortal  books,  if  you  hap- 
pen to  write  such.  Or,  to  use  another  illustration, 
writing  or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a rifie ; you 
may  hit  your  reader’s  mind,  or  miss  it ; — but  talking 
is  like  playing  at  a mark  with  the  pipe  of  an  engine; 
if  it  is  within  reach,  and  you  have  time  enough,  you 
can’t  help  hitting  it.” 

The  company  agreed  that  this  last  illustration  was 
of  superior  excellence,  or,  in  the  phrase  used  by  them, 
^‘Fust-rate.”  I acknowledged  the  compliment,  but 
gently  rebuked  the  expression.  “ Fust-rate,”  prime,” 
“ a prime  article,”  “ a superior  piece  of  goods,”  ‘‘  a 
handsome  garment,”  a gent  in  a flowered  vest,”  — 
all  such  expressions  are  final.  They  blast  the  lineage 
of  him  or  her  who  utters  them,  for  generations  up  and 
down.  There  is  one  other  phrase  which  will  soon 
come  to  be  decisive  of  a man’s  social  status^  if  it  is 
not  already  • That  tells  the  whole  story.”  It  is  an 
expression  which  vulgar  and  conceited  people  particu- 
larly affect,  and  which  well-meaning  ones,  who  know 
better,  catch  from  them.  It  is  intended  to  stop  all  de- 
bate, like  the  previous  question  in  the  General  Court. 
Only  it  does  n’t ; simply  because  ‘‘  that  ” does  not  usu- 
ally tell  the  whole,  nor  one  half  of  the  whole  story. 

— It  is  an  odd  idea,  that  almost  all  our  people  have 
had  a professional  education.  To  become  a doctor  a 
man  must  study  some  three  years  and  hear  a thousand 
lectures,  more  or  less.  Just  how  much  study  it  takes 
to  make  a lawyer  I cannot  say,  but  probably  not  more 
than  this.  Now,  most  decent  people  hear  one  hundred 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  29 

lectures  or  sermons  (discourses)  on  theology  every 
year,  — and  this,  twenty,  thirty,  fifty  years  together. 
They  read  a great  many  religious  books  besides.  The 
clergy,  however,  rarely  hear  any  sermons  except  what 
they  preach  themselves.  A dull  preacher  might  be 
conceived,  therefore,  to  lapse  into  a state  of  quasi 
heathenism,  simply  for  want  of  religious  instruction. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  an  attentive  and  intelligent 
hearer,  listening  to  a succession  of  wise  teachers, 
might  become  actually  better  educated  in  theology 
than  any  one  of  them.  We  are  all  theological  stu- 
dents, and  more  of  us  qualified  as  doctors  of  divinity 
than  have  received  degrees  at  any  of  the  universities. 

It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  very  good  people 
should  often  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  keep 
their  attention  fixed  upon  a sermon  treating  feebly  a 
subject  which  they  have  thought  vigorously  about  for 
years,  and  heard  able  men  discuss  scores  of  times.  I 
have  often  noticed,  however,  that  a hopelessly  dull  dis- 
course acts  inductwely^  as  electricians  would  say,  in 
developing  strong  mental  currents.  I am  ashamed  to 
think  with  what  accompaniments  and  variations  and 
flourishes  I have  sometimes  followed  the  droning  of  a 
heavy  speaker,  — not  willingly,  — for  my  habit  is  rev- 
erential, — but  as  a necessary  result  of  a slight  con- 
tinuous impression  on  the  senses  and  the  mind,  which 
kept  both  in  action  without  furnishing  the  food  they 
required  to  work  upon.  If  you  ever  saw  a crow  with 
a king-bird  after  him,  you  will  get  an  image  of  a dull 
speaker  and  a lively  listener.  The  bird  in  sable  plum- 
age flaps  heavily  along  his  straightforward  course, 
while  the  other  sails  round  him,  over  him,  under  him, 
leaves  him,  comes  back  again,  tweaks  out  a black 
feather,  shoots  away  once  more,  never  losing  sight  of 


30  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

him,  and  finally  reaches  the  crow’s  perch  at  the  same 
time  the  crow  does,  having  cut  a perfect  labyrinth  of 
loops  and  knots  and  spirals  while  the  slow  fowl  was 
painfully  working  from  one  end  of  his  straight  line  to 
the  other. 

[I  think  these  remarks  were  received  rather  coolly. 
A temporary  boarder  from  the  country,  consisting  of 
a somewhat  more  than  middle-aged  female,  with  a 
parchment  forehead  and  a dry  little  “ frisette  ” shin- 
gling it,  a sallow  neck  with  a necklace  of  gold  beads, 
a black  dress  too  rusty  for  recent  grief,  and  contours 
in  basso-rilievo,  left  the  table  prematurely,  and  was 
reported  to  have  been  very  virulent  about  what  I said. 
So  I went  to  my  good  old  minister,  and  repeated  the 
remarks,  as  nearly  as  I could  remember  them,  to  him. 
He  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  said  there  was  con- 
siderable truth  in  them.  He  thought  he  could  tell 
when  people’s  minds  were  wandering,  by  their  looks. 
In  the  earlier  years  of  his  ministry  he  had  sometimes 
noticed  this,  when  he  was  preaching ; — very  little  of 
late  years.  Sometimes,  when  his  colleague  was  preach- 
ing, he  observed  this  kind  of  inattention ; but  after  all, 
it  was  not  so  very  unnatural.  I will  say,  by  the  way, 
that  it  is  a rule  I have  long  followed,  to  tell  my  worst 
thoughts  to  my  minister,  and  my  best  thoughts  to  the 
young  people  I talk  with.] 

— I want  to  make  a literary  confession  now,  which 
I believe  nobody  has  made  before  me.  You  know 
very  well  that  I write  verses  sometimes,  because  I 
have  read  some  of  them  at  this  table.  (The  company 
assented,  — two  or  three  of  them  in  a resigned  sort  of 
way,  as  I thought,  as  if  they  supposed  I had  an  epic 
in  my  pocket,  and  were  going  to  read  half  a dozen 
books  or  so  for  their  benefit.)  — I continued.  Of 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  31 

course  I write  some  lines  or  passages  which  are  better 
than  others ; some  which,  compared  with  the  others, 
might  be  called  relatively  excellent.  It  is  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  that  I should  consider  these  relatively 
excellent  lines  or  passages  as  absolutely  good.  So 
much  must  be  pardoned  to  humanity.  Now  I never 
wrote  a good  ” line  in  my  life,  but  the  moment  after 
it  was  written  it  seemed  a hundred  years  old.  Very 
commonly  I had  a sudden  conviction  that  I had  seen 
it  somewhere.  Possibly  I may  have  sometimes  un- 
consciously stolen  it,  but  I do  not  remember  that  I 
ever  once  detected  any  historical  truth  in  these  sudden 
convictions  of  the  antiquity  of  my  new  thought  or 
phrase.  I have  learned  utterly  to  distrust  them,  and 
never  allow  them  to  bully  me  out  of  a thought  or  line. 

This  is  the  philosophy  of  it.  (Here  the  number  of 
the  company  was  diminished  by  a small  secession.) 
Any  new  formula  which  suddenly  emerges  in  our  con- 
sciousness has  its  roots  in  long  trains  of  thought ; it  is 
virtually  old  when  it  first  makes  its  appearance  among 
the  recognized  growths  of  our  intellect.  Any  crystal- 
line group  of  musical  words  has  had  a long  and  still 
period  to  form  in.  Here  is  one  theory. 

But  there  is  a larger  law  which  perhaps  compre- 
hends these  facts.  It  is  this.  The  rapidity  with 
which  ideas  grow  old  in  our  memories  is  in  a direct 
ratio  to  the  squares  of  their  importance.  Their  ap- 
parent age  runs  up  miraculously,  like  the  value  of  dia- 
monds, as  they  increase  in  magnitude.  A great  ca- 
lamity, for  instance,  is  as  old  as  the  trilobites  an  hour 
after  it  has  happened.  It  stains  backward  through 
all  the  leaves  we  have  turned  over  in  the  book  of  life, 
before  its  blot  of  tears  or  of  blood  is  dry  on  the  page 
we  are  turning.  For  this  we  seem  to  have  lived;  it 


32  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

was  foreshadowed  in  dreams  that  we  leaped  out  of  in 
the  cold  sweat  of  terror;  in  the  ^‘dissolving  views’’  of 
dark  day- visions;  all  omens  pointed  to  it;  all  paths 
led  to  it.  After  the  tossing  haK-forgetfulness  of  the 
first  sleep  that  follows  such  an  event,  it  comes  upon  us 
afresh,  as  a surprise,  at  waking ; in  a few  moments  it 
is  old  again,  — old  as  eternity. 

[I  wish  I had  not  said  all  this  then  and  there.  I 
might  have  known  better.  The  pale  schoolmistress, 
in  her  mourning  dress,  was  looking  at  me,  as  I noticed, 
with  a wild  sort  of  expression.  All  at  once  the  blood 
dropped  out  of  her  cheeks  as  the  mercury  drops  from 
a broken  barometer-tube,  and  she  melted  away  from 
her  seat  like  an  image  of  snow;  a slung-shot  could 
not  have  brought  her  down  better.  God  forgive  me ! 

After  this  little  episode,  I continued,  to  some  few 
who  remained  balancing  teaspoons  on  the  edges  of 
cups,  twirling  knives,  or  tilting  upon  the  hind  legs  of 
their  chairs  until  their  heads  reached  the  wall,  where 
they  left  gratuitous  advertisements  of  various  popular 
cosmetics.] 

When  a person  is  suddenly  thrust  into  any  strange, 
new  position  of  trial,  he  finds  the  place  fits  him  as  if 
he  had  been  measured  for  it.  He  has  committed  a 
great  crime,  for  instance,  and  is  sent  to  the  State 
Prison.  The  traditions,  prescriptions,  limitations, 
privileges,  all  the  sharp  conditions  of  his  new  life, 
stamp  themselves  upon  his  consciousness  as  the  signet 
on  soft  wax ; — a single  pressure  is  enough.  Let  me 
strengthen  the  image  a little.  Did  you  ever  happen 
to  see  that  most  soft-spoken  and  velvet-handed  steam- 
engine  at  the  Mint  ? The  smooth  piston  slides  back- 
ward and  forward  as  a lady  might  slip  her  delicate 
finger  in  and  out  of  a ring.  The  engine  lays  one  of 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEE AKF AST-TABLE.  33 

its  fingers  calmly,  but  firmly,  upon  a bit  of  metal ; it 
is  a coin  now,  and  will  remember  that  touch,  and  tell 
a new  race  about  it,  when  the  date  upon  it  is  crusted 
over  with  twenty  centuries.  So  it  is  that  a great 
silent-moving  misery  puts  a new  stamp  on  us  in  an 
hour  or  a moment,  — as  sharp  an  impression  as  if  it 
had  taken  half  a lifetime  to  engrave  it. 

It  is  awful  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  wholesale 
professional  dealers  in  misfortune;  imdertakers  and 
jailers  magnetize  you  in  a moment,  and  you  pass  out 
of  the  individual  life  you  were  living  into  the  rhyth- 
mical movements  of  their  horrible  machinery.  Do 
the  worst  thing  you  can,  or  suffer  the  worst  that  can 
be  thought  of,  you  find  yourself  in  a category  of  hu- 
manity that  stretches  back  as  far  as  Cain,  and  with  an 
expert  at  your  elbow  who  has  studied  your  case  all 
out  beforehand,  and  is  waiting  for  you  with  his  imple- 
ments of  hemp  or  mahogany.  I believe,  if  a man 
were  to  be  burned  in  any  of  our  cities  to-morrow  for 
heresy,  there  would  be  found  a master  of  ceremonies 
who  knew  just  how  many  fagots  were  necessary,  and 
the  best  way  of  arranging  the  whole  matter.^ 

® Accidents  are  liable  to  happen  if  no  thoroughly  trained  ex- 
pert happens  to  be  present.  When  Catharine  Hays  was  burnt 
at  Tyburn,  in  1726,  the  officiating  artist  scorched  his  own 
hands,  and  the  whole  business  was  awkwardly  managed  for 
want  of  practical  familiarity  with  the  process.  We  have  still 
remaining  a guide  to  direct  us  in  one  important  part  of  the  ar- 
rangements. Bishop  Hooper  was  burned  at  Gloucester,  Eng- 
land, in  the  year  1555.  A few  years  ago,  in  making  certain 
excavations,  the  charred  stump  of  the  stake  to  which  he  was 
bound  was  discovered.  An  account  of  the  interesting  cere- 
mony, so  important  in  ecclesiastical  history  — the  argumentum 
ad  ignem,  with  a photograph  of  the  half-burned  stick  of  timber 
was  sent  me  by  my  friend,  Mr.  John  Bellows,  of  Gloucester,  a 
zealous  antiquarian,  widely  known  by  his  wonderful  miniature 


34  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— So  we  have  not  won  the  Goodwood  cup  ; au  con^ 
traire^  we  were  a bad  fifth,”  if  not  worse  than  that ; 
and  trying  it  again,  and  the  third  time,  has  not  yet 
bettered  the  matter.  Now  I am  as  patriotic  as  any  of 
my  fellow-citizens,  — too  patriotic  in  fact,  for  I have 
got  into  hot  water  by  loving  too  much  of  my  coimtry  ; 
in  short,  if  any  man,  whose  fighting  weight  is  not  more 
than  eight  stone  four  pounds,  disputes  it,  I am  ready 
to  discuss  the  point  with  him.  I should  have  gloried 
to  see  the  stars  and  stripes  in  front  at  the  finish.  I 
love  my  country  and  I love  horses.  Stubbs’s  old  mez- 
zotint of  Eclipse  hangs  over  my  desk,  and  Herring’s 
portrait  of  Plenipotentiary  — whom  I saw  run  at  Ep- 
som — over  my  fireplace.  Did  I not  elope  from 
school  to  see  Revenge,  and  Prospect,  and  Little  John, 
and  Peacemaker  run  over  the  race-course  where  now 
yon  suburban  village  flourishes,  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  ever-so-few  ? Though  I never  owned  a 
horse,  have  I not  been  the  proprietor  of  six  equine  fe- 
males, of  which  one  was  the  prettiest  little  Morgin  ” 
that  ever  stepped  ? Listen,  then,  to  an  opinion  I have 
often  expressed  long  before  this  venture  of  ours  in 
England.  Horse-racmp^  is  not  a republican  institu- 
tion; \iov^Q-trotting  is.  Only  very  rich  persons  can 
keep  race-horses,  and  everybody  knows  they  are  kept 
mainly  as  gambling  implements.  All  that  matter 
about  blood  and  speed  we  won’t  discuss;  we  under- 
stand all  that ; useful,  very,  — of  course,  — great  ob- 
ligations to  the  Godolphin  ‘‘  Arabian,”  and  the  rest. 
I say  racing-horses  are  essentially  gambling  imple- 

French  dictionary,  one  of  the  scholarly  printers  and  publishers 
who  honor  the  calling  of  Aldus  and  the  Elzevirs.  The  stake 
was  big  enough  to  chain  the  whole  Bench  of  Bishops  to  as  fast 
as  the  Athanasian  creed  still  holds  them. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  35 

meiits,  as  much  as  roulette  tables.  Now,  I am  not 
preaching  at  this  moment ; I may  read  you  one  of  my 
sermons  some  other  morning ; but  I maintain  that 
gambling,  on  the  great  scale,  is  not  republican.  It 
belongs  to  two  phases  of  society,  — a cankered  over- 
civilization, such  as  exists  in  rich  aristocracies,  and 
the  reckless  life  of  borderers  and  adventurers,  or  the 
semi-barbarism  of  a civilization  resolved  into  its  prim- 
itive elements.  Real  Republicanism  is  stern  and  se- 
vere ; its  essence  is  not  in  forms  of  government,  but  in 
the  omnipotence  of  public  opinion  which  grows  out  of 
it.  This  public  opinion  cannot  prevent  gambling  with 
dice  or  stocks,  but  it  can  and  does  compel  it  to  keep 
comparatively  quiet.  But  horse-racing  is  the  most 
public  way  of  gambling,  and  with  all  its  immense  at- 
tractions to  the  sense  and  the  feelings,  — to  which  I 
plead  very  susceptible,  — the  disguise  is  too  thin  that 
covers  it,  and  everybody  knows  what  it  means.  Its 
supporters  are  the  Southern  gentry,  — fine  fellows,  no 
doubt,  but  not  republicans  exactly,  as  we  understand 
the  term,  — a few  Northern  millionnaires  more  or  less 
thoroughly  millioned,  who  do  not  represent  the  real 
people,  and  the  mob  of  sporting  men,  the  best  of 
whom  are  commonly  idlers,  and  the  worst  very  bad 
neighbors  to  have  near  one  in  a crowd,  or  to  meet  in 
a dark  alley.  In  England,  on  the  other  hand,  with 
its  aristocratic  institutions,  racing  is  a natural  growth 
enough ; the  passion  for  it  spreads  downwards  through 
all  classes,  from  the  Queen  to  the  costermonger.  Lon- 
don is  like  a shelled  corn-cob  on  the  Derby  day,  and 
there  is  not  a clerk  who  could  raise  the  money  to  hire 
a saddle  with  an  old  hack  under  it  that  can  sit  down 
on  his  office-stool  the  next  day  without  wincing. 

Now  just  compare  the  racer  with  the  trotter  for  a 


86  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


moment.  The  racer  is  incidentally  useful,  but  essen- 
tially something  to  bet  upon,  as  much  as  the  thimble- 
rigger’s  little  joker.”  The  trotter  is  essentially  and 
daily  useful,  and  only  incidentally  a tool  for  sporting 
men. 

What  better  reason  do  you  want  for  the  fact  that 
the  racer  is  most  cultivated  and  reaches  his  greatest 
perfection  in  England,  and  that  the  trotting  horses  of 
America  beat  the  world  ? And  why  should  we  have 
expected  that  the  pick  — if  it  was  the  pick  — of  our 
few  and  far-between  racing  stables  should  beat  the 
pick  of  England  and  France  ? Throw  over  the  falla- 
cious time-test,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  it 
but  a natural  kind  of  patriotic  feeling,  which  we  all 
have,  with  a thoroughly  provincial  conceit,  which  some 
of  us  must  plead  guilty  to. 

We  may  beat  yet."  As  an  American,  I hope  we 
shall.  As  a moralist  and  occasional  sermonizer,  I am 
not  so  anxious  about  it.  Wherever  the  trotting  horse 

“ We  have  beaten  in  many  races  in  England  since  this  was 
written,  and  at  last  carried  off  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  turf  at 
Epsom.  But  up  to  the  present  time  trotting  matches  and  base- 
ball are  distinctively  American,  as  contrasted  with  running  races 
and  cricket,  which  belong,  as  of  right,  to  England.  The  won- 
derful effects  of  breeding  and  training  in  a particular  direc- 
tion are  shown  in  the  records  of  the  trotting  horse.  In  1844 
Lady  Suffolk  trotted  a mile  in  2:26^,  which  was,  I think,  the 
fastest  time  to  that  date.  In  1859  Flora  Temple’s  time  at  Kal- 
amazoo — I remember  Mr.  Emerson  surprised  me  once  by  cor- 
recting my  error  of  a quarter  of  a second  in  mentioning  it  — was 
2:19|.  Dexter  in  1867  brought  the  figure  down  to  2:17j.  There 
is  now  a whole  class  of  horses  that  can  trot  under  2:20,  and  in 
1881  Maud  S.  distanced  all  previous  records  with  2:10J.  Many 
of  our  best  running  horses  go  to  England.  Racing  in  distinc- 
tion from  trotting,  I think,  attracts  less  attention  in  this  country 
now  than  in  the  days  of  American  Eclipse  and  Henry. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  37 

goes,  he  carries  in  his  train  brisk  omnibuses,  lively 
bakers’  carts,  and  therefore  hot  rolls,  the  jolly  butch- 
er’s wagon,  the  cheerful  gig,  the  wholesome  afternoon 
drive  with  wife  and  child,  — all  the  forms  of  moral  ex- 
cellence, except  truth,  which  does  not  agree  with  any 
kind  of  horse-flesh.  The  racer  brings  with  him  gam- 
bling, cursing,  swearing,  drinking,  and  a distaste  for 
mob-caps  and  the  middle-aged  virtues. 

And  by  the  way,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  call  a trot- 
ting match  a race,  and  not  to  speak  of  a thorough- 
bred ” as  a “ blooded  ” horse,  unless  he  has  been  re- 
cently phlebotomized.  I consent  to  your  saying 
blood  horse,”  if  you  like.  Also,  if,  next  year,  we 
send  out  Posterior  and  Posterioress,  the  winners  of 
the  great  national  four-mile  race  in  7:18J^,  and  they 
happen  to  get  beaten,  pay  your  bets,  and  behave  like 
men  and  gentlemen  about  it,  if  you  know  how. 

[I  felt  a great  deal  better  after  blowing  off  the  ill- 
temper  condensed  in  the  above  paragraph.  To  brag 
little,  — to  show  well,  — to  crow  gently,  if  in  luck,  — 
to  pay  up,  to  own  up,  and  to  shut  up,  if  beaten,  are 
the  virtues  of  a sporting  man,  and  I can’t  say  that  I 
think  we  have  shown  them  in  any  great  perfection  of 
late.] 

— Apropos  of  horses.  Do  you  know  how  important 
good  jockeying  is  to  authors  ? Judicious  management ; 
letting  the  public  see  your  animal  just  enough,  and 
not  too  much  ; holding  him  up  hard  when  the  market 
is  too  full  of  him ; letting  him  out  at  just  the  right 
buying  intervals  ; always  gently  feeling  his  mouth ; 
never  slacking  and  never  jerking  the  rein ; — this  is 
what  I mean  by  jockeying. 

' — When  an  author  has  a number  of  books  out  a 
cunning  hand  will  keep  them  all  spinning,  as  Signor 


38  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Blitz  does  his  dinner-plates ; fetching  each  one  up,  as 
it  begins  to  “ wabble,”  by  an  advertisement,  a puff,  or 
a quotation. 

— Whenever  the  extracts  from  a living  writer  be- 
gin to  multiply  fast  in  the  papers,  without  obvious  rea- 
son, there  is  a new  book  or  a new  edition  coming.  The 
extracts  are  ground-bait. 

— Literary  life  is  full  of  curious  phenomena.  I 
don’t  know  that  there  is  anything  more  noticeable 
than  what  we  may  call  conventional  reputations. 
There  is  a tacit  understanding  in  every  community 
of  men  of  letters  that  they  will  not  disturb  the  popu- 
lar fallacy  respecting  this  or  that  electro-gilded  ce- 
lebrity. There  are  various  reasons  for  this  forbear- 
ance : one  is  old ; one  is  rich ; one  is  good-natured ; 
one  is  such  a favorite  with  the  pit  that  it  would  not  be 
safe  to  hiss  him  from  the  manager’s  box.  The  vener- 
able augurs  of  the  literary  or  scientific  temple  may 
smile  faintly  when  one  of  the  tribe  is  mentioned ; but 
the  farce  is  in  general  kept  up  as  well  as  the  Chinese 
comic  scene  of  entreating  and  imploring  a man  to  stay 
with  you,  with  the  implied  compact  between  you  that 
he  shall  by  no  means  think  of  doing  it.  A poor 
wretch  he  must  be  who  would  wantonly  sit  down  on 
one  of  these  bandbox  reputations.  A Prince-Rupert’s- 
drop,  which  is  a tear  of  unannealed  glass,  lasts  indefi- 
nitely, if  you  keep  it  from  meddling  hands ; but  break 
its  tail  off,  and  it  explodes  and  resolves  itself  into  pow- 
der. These  celebrities  I speak  of  are  the  Prince-Ru- 
pert’s-drops  of  the  learned  and  polite  world.  See  how 
the  papers  treat  them  ! What  an  array  of  pleasant 
kaleidoscopic  phrases,  which  can  be  arranged  in  ever 
so  many  charming  patterns,  is  at  their  service  ! How 
kind  the  ‘‘  Critical  Notices  ” — where  small  author- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  39 


ship  comes  to  pick  up  chips  of  praise,  fragrant,  sugary 
and  sappy  — always  are  to  them ! W ell,  life  would 
be  nothing  without  paper-credit  and  other  fictions  ; so 
let  them  pass  current.  Don’t  steal  their  chips ; don’t 
puncture  their  swimming-bladders ; don’t  come  down 
on  their  pasteboard  boxes ; don’t  break  the  ends  of 
their  brittle  and  unstable  reputations,  you  fellows  who 
all  feel  sure  that  your  names  will  be  household  words 
a thousand  years  from  now. 

A thousand  years  is  a good  while,”  said  the  old 
gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  thoughtfully. 

— Where  have  I been  for  the  last  three  or  four 
days?  Down  at  the  Island,®  deer-shooting.  — How 
many  did  I bag?  I brought  home  one  buck  shot. — 
The  Island  is  where?  No  matter.  It  is  the  most 
splendid  domain  that  any  man  looks  upon  in  these 
latitudes.  Blue  sea  around  it,  and  running  up  into 
its  heart,  so  that  the  little  boat  slumbers  like  a baby 
in  lap,  while  the  tall  ships  are  stripping  naked  to  fight 
the  hurricane  outside,  and  storm-stay-sails  banging 
and  flying  in  ribbons.  Trees,  in  stretches  of  miles ; 
beeches,  oaks,  most  numerous  ; — many  of  them  hung 
with  moss,  looking  like  bearded  Druids;  some  coiled 
in  the  clasp  of  huge,  dark-stemmed  grape-vines.  Open 
patches  where  the  sun  gets  in  and  goes  to  sleep,  and 
the  winds  come  so  finely  sifted  that  they  are  as  soft  as 
swan’s-down.  Rocks  scattered  about,  — Stonehenge- 
like  monoliths.  Fresh- water  lakes ; one  of  them, 

Mary’s  lake,  crystal-clear,  full  of  flashing  pickerel 

® The  beautiful  island  referred  to  is  Nausbon,  tbe  largest  of  a 
group  lying  between  Buzzard’s  Bay  and  the  Vineyard  Sound, 
south  of  the  main  land  of  Massachusetts.  It  is  the  noblest  do- 
main in  New  England,  and  the  present  Lord  of  the  Manor  is 
worthy  of  succeeding  “ the  Governor  ” of  blessed  memory. 


4:0  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

lying  under  the  lily-pads  like  tigers  in  the  jungle. 
Six  pounds  of  ditto  killed  one  morning  for  breakfast. 
Ego  fecit. 

The  divinity-student  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to 
question  my  Latin.  No  sir,  I said,-— you  need  not 
trouble  yourself.  There  is  a higher  law  in  grammar 
not  to  be  put  down  by  Andrews  and  Stoddard.  Then 
I went  on. 

Such  hospitality  as  that  island  has  seen  there  has 
not  been  the  like  of  in  these  our  New  England  sov- 
ereignties. There  is  nothing  in  the  shape  of  kindness 
and  courtesy  that  can  make  life  beautiful,  which  has 
not  found  its  home  in  that  ocean-principality.  It  has 
welcomed  all  who  were  worthy  of  welcome,  from  the 
pale  clergyman  who  came  to  breathe  the  sea-air  with 
its  medicinal  salt  and  iodine,  to  the  great  statesman 
who  turned  his  back  on  the  affairs  of  empire,  and 
smoothed  his  Olympian  forehead,  and  flashed  his 
white  teeth  in  naerriment  over  the  long  table,  where 
his  wit  was  the  keenest  and  his  story  the  best. 

[I  don’t  believe  any  man  ever  talked  like  that  in 
this  world.  I don’t  believe  I talked  just  so ; but  the 
fact  is,  in  reporting  one’s  conversation,  one  cannot 
help  Blair-iug  it  up  more  or  less,  ironing  out  crum- 
pled paragraphs,  starching  limp  ones,  and  crimping 
and  plaiting  a little  sometimes;  it  is  as  natural  as 
prinking  at  the  looking-glass.] 

— How  can  a man  help  writing  poetry  in  such  a 
place  ? Everybody  does  write  poetry  that  goes  there. 
In  the  state  archives,  kept  in  the  library  of  the  Lord 
of  the  Isle,  are  whole  volumes  of  impublished  verse, 
— some  by  well-known  hands,  and  others  quite  as 
good,  by  the  last  people  you  would  think  of  as  versifi- 
ers, — men  who  could  pension  off  all  the  genuine 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  41 

poets  in  the  country,  and  buy  ten  acres  of  Boston 
common,  if  it  was  for  sale,  with  what  they  had  left. 
Of  course  I had  to  write  my  little  copy  of  verses  with 
the  rest;  here  it  is,  if  you  will  hear  me  read  it. 
When  the  sun  is  in  the  west,  vessels  sailing  in  an 
easterly  direction  look  bright  or  dark  to  one  who  ob- 
serves them  from  the  north  or  south,  according  to  the 
tack  they  are  sailing  upon.  Watching  them  from  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  great  mansion,  I saw  these  per- 
petual changes,  and  moralized  thus : — 

SUN  AND  SHADOW. 

As  I look  from  the  isle,  o’er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 

Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue  : 

Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 
As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail; 

Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gkaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar; 

How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 
They  see  him  that  gaze  from  the  shore ! 

He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef. 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee. 

As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a wind- wafted  leaf, 

O’er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim- vaulted  caves 
Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid. 

The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 
May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 

Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 
We’ll  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before  , 

And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark. 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore ! 


42  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— Insanity  is  often  the  logic  of  an  accurate  mind 
overtasked.  Good  mental  machinery  ought  to  break 
its  own  wheels  and  levers,  if  anything  is  thrust  among 
them  suddenly  which  tends  to  stop  them  or  reverse 
their  motion.  A weak  mind  does  not  accumulate 
force  enough  to  hurt  itself;  stupidity  often  saves  a 
man  from  going  mad.  We  frequently  see  persons  in 
insane  hospitals,  sent  there  in  consequence  of  what  are 
called  religious,  mental  disturbances.  I confess  that 
I think  better  of  them  than  of  many  who  hold  the 
same  notions,  and  keep  their  wits  and  appear  to  enjoy 
life  very  well,  outside  of  the  asylums.  Any  decent 
person  ought  to  go  mad,  if  he  really  holds  such  or 
such  opinions.  It  is  very  much  to  his  discredit  in 
every  point  of  view,  if  he  does  not.  What  is  the  use 
of  my  saying  what  some  of  these  opinions  are  ? Per- 
haps more  than  one  of  you  hold  such  as  I should  think 
ought  to  send  you  straight  over  to  Somerville,  if  you 
have  any  logic  in  your  heads  or  any  human  feeling  in 
your  hearts.  Anything  that  is  brutal,  cruel,  heathen- 
ish, that  makes  life  hopeless  for  the  most  of  mankind 
and  perhaps  for  entire  races,  — anything  that  assumes 
the  necessity  of  the  extermination  of  instincts  which 
were  given  to  be  regulated,  — no  matter  by  what 
name  you  call  it,  — no  matter  whether  a fakir,  or  a 
monk,  or  a deacon  believes  it,  — if  received,  ought  to 
produce  insanity  in  every  well-regulated  mind.  That 
condition  becomes  a normal  one,  under  the  circum- 
stances. I am  very  much  ashamed  of  some  people  for 
retaining  their  reason,  when  they  know  perfectly  well 
that  if  they  were  not  the  most  stupid  or  the  most  self- 
ish of  human  beings,  they  would  become  non-eompo- 
tes  at  once. 

[Nobody  understood  this  but  the  theological  stu- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE,  43 

dent  and  the  schoolmistress.  They  looked  intelli- 
gently at  each  other ; but  whether  they  were  thinking 
about  my  paradox  or  not,  I am  not  clear.  — It  would 
be  natural  enough.  Stranger  things  have  happened. 
Love  and  Death  enter  boarding-houses  without  asking 
the  price  of  board,  or  whether  there  is  room  for  them. 
Alas ! these  young  people  are  poor  and  pallid  ! Love 
should  be  both  rich  and  rosy,  but  must  be  either  rich 
or  rosy.  Talk  about  military  duty !.  What  is  that  to 
the  warfare  of  a married  maid-of-all-work,  with  the 
title  of  mistress,  and  an  American  female  constitution, 
which  collapses  just  in  the  middle  third  of  life,  and 
comes  out  vulcanized  India-rubber,  if  it  happen  to  live 
through  the  period  when  health  and  strength  are  most 
wanted  ?] 

— Have  I ever  acted  in  private  theatricals  ? Often. 
I have  played  the  part  of  the  Poor  Gentleman,”  be- 
fore a great  many  audiences,  — more,  I trust,  than  I 
shall  ever  face  again.  I did  not  wear  a stage-costume, 
nor  a wig,  nor  moustaches  of  burnt  cork,  but  I was 
placarded  and  announced  as  a public  performer,  and 
at  the  proper  hour  I came  forward  with  the  ballet- 
dancer’s  smile  upon  my  countenance,  and  made  my 
bow  and  acted  my  part.  I have  seen  my  name  stuck 
up  in  letters  so  big  that  I was  ashamed  to  show  myself 
in  the  place  by  daylight.  I have  gone  to  a town 
with  a sober  literary  essay  in  my  pocket,  and  seen  my- 
self everywhere  announced  as  the  most  desperate  of 
huff  os  ^ — one  who  was  obliged  to  restrain  himself  in 
the  full  exercise  of  his  powers,  from  prudential  consid- 
erations. I have  been  through  as  many  hardships  as 
Ulysses,  in  the  pursuit  of  my  histrionic  vocation.  I 
have  travelled  in  cars  until  the  conductors  all  knew 
me  like  a brother.  I have  run  off  the  rails,  and  stuck 


44  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

all  night  in  snow-drifts,  and  sat  behind  females  that 
would  have  the  window  open  when  one  could  not 
wink  without  his  eyelids  freezing  together.  Perhaps 
I shall  give  you  some  of  my  experiences  one  of  these 
days ; — I will  not  now,  for  I have  something  else  for 
you.  ^ 

Private  theatricals,  as  I have  figured  in  them  in 
country  lyceum-halls,  are  one  thing,  — and  private 
theatricals,  as  they  may  be  seen  in  certain  gilded  and 
frescoed  saloons  of  our  metropolis,  are  another.  Yes, 
it  is  pleasant  to  see  real  gentlemen  and  ladies,  who 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  mouth,  and  rant,  and 
stride,  like  most  of  our  stage  heroes  and  heroines,  in 
the  characters  which  show  off  their  graces  and  talents ; 
most  of  all  to  see  a fresh,  unrouged,  unspoiled,  high- 
bred young  maiden,  with  a lithe  figure,  and  a pleasant 
voice,  acting  in  those  love-dramas  which  make  us 
young  again  to  look  upon,  when  real  youth  and  beauty 
will  play  them  for  us. 

— Of  course  I wrote  the  prologue  I was  asked  to 
write.  I did  not  see  the  play,  though.  I knew  there 
was  a young  lady  in  it,  and  that  somebody  was  in  love 
with  her,  and  she  was  in  love  with  him,  and  somebody 
(an  old  tutor,  I believe)  wanted  to  interfere,  and, 
very  naturally,  the  young  lady  was  too  sharp  for  him. 
The  play  of  course  ends  charmingly ; there  is  a gen- 
eral reconciliation,  and  all  concerned  form  a line  and 
take  each  other’s  hands,  as  people  always  do  after  they 
have  made  up  their  quarrels,  — and  then  the  curtain 
falls,  — if  it  does  not  stick,  as  it  commonly  does  at 
private  theatrical  exhibitions,  in  which  case  a boy  is 
detailed  to  pull  it  down,  which  he  does,  blushing  vio- 
lently. 

Now,  then,  for  my  prologue.  I am  not  going  to 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OE  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  45 


ehange  my  caesuras  and  cadences  for  anybody ; so  if 
you  do  not  like  the  heroic,  or  iambic  trimeter  brachy- 
catalectic,  you  had  better  not  wait  to  hear  it. 

THIS  IS  IT. 

A Prologue  ? Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know ; — 

I have  my  doubts.  No  matter,  — here  we  go  ! 

What  is  a prologue?  Let  our  Tutor  teach : 

Pro  means  beforehand;  logus  stands  for  speech. 

’Tis  like  the  harper’s  prelude  on  the  strings, 

The  prima  donna’s  courtesy  ere  she  sings. 

“ The  world’s  a stage,”  — as  Shakspeare  said,  one  day ; 
The  stage  a world  — was  what  he  meant  to  say. 

The  outside  world ’s  a blunder,  that  is  clear; 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 

Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma; 

Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa ; 

Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift’s  debts  are  paid, 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain’s  fall. 

— Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief. 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief, 

— When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a frantic  speech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a brandy-peach. 

Cries,  “ Help,  kyind  Heaven!  ” and  drops  upon  her  knees 
On  the  green  — baize,  — beneath  the  (canvas)  trees,  — 

See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly:  — 

“ Ha!  Villain!  Draw!  Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die!” 

— When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair. 

Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionaire,  — 

Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy. 

Sobs  on  his  neck,  ‘‘  My  hoy  ! My  boy!!  MY  BOY!!!  ” 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night 
Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster’s  spite. 


46  THE  AIJTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Ladies,  attend!  While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 

Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 

One  thing  is  certain : Love  will  triumph  here ! 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  youi  ladies  rule, — 

The  world’s  great  masters,  when  you’re  out  of  school,  — 
Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening’s  play: 

Man  has  his  will,  — but  woman  has  her  way! 

While  man’s  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire. 

Woman’s  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire, — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 
Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 
But  that  one  rebel,  — woman’s  wilful  heart, 

All  foes  you  master;  but  a woman’s  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you’re  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  girt  can  do. 

Hear  an  old  story  made  as  good  as  new. 

Budolph,  professor  of  the  headsman’s  trade, 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 

One  day  a prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist’s  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 
Budolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lightened  with  a sudden  gleam. 

As  the  pike’s  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade;  he  turned  as  if  to  go; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

“ Why  strikest  not?  Perform  thy  murderous  act,” 

The  prisoner  said.  (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 

“ Friend  I have  struck,”  the  artist  straight  replied; 

“ Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide.” 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  — ‘‘  Now  then,  if  you  please!  ” 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a crashing  sneeze. 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  — bowled  along  the  floor,  — 
Bounced  down  the  steps;  — the  prisoner  said  no  more! 

W Oman ! thy  falchion  is  a glittering  eye ; 

If  death  lurks  in  it,  oh,  how  sweet  to  die ! 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  4T 

Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head  ; 

We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  Te  dead  ! 

The  prologue  went  off  very  well,  as  I hear.  No  al- 
terations were  suggested  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  was 
sent,  so  far  as  I know.  Sometimes  people  criticise 
the  poems  one  sends  them,  and  suggest  all  sorts  of 
improvements."  Who  was  that  silly  body  that  wanted 
Burns  to  alter  Scots  wha  hae,”  so  as  to  lengthen  the 
last  line,  thus  ? — 

Edward  ! ’’  Chains  and  slavery. 

Here  is  a little  poem  I sent  a short  time  since  to  a 
committee  for  a certain  celebration.  I understood 
that  it  was  to  be  a festive  and  convivial  occasion,  and 
ordered  myself  accordingly.  It  seems  the  president 
of  the  day  was  what  is  called  a teetotaller.”  I re- 
ceived a note  from  him  in  the  following  words,  con- 
taining the  copy  subjoined,  with  the  emendations  an- 
nexed to  it. 

Dear  Sir,  — your  poem  gives  good  satisfaction  to 
the  committee.  The  sentiments  expressed  with  refer- 
ence to  liquor  are  not,  however,  those  generally  enter- 
tained by  this  community.  I have  therefore  consulted 
the  clergyman  of  this  place,  who  has  made  some  slight 
changes,  which  he  thinks  will  remove  all  objections, 
and  keep  the  valuable  portions  of  the  poem.  Please 
to  inform  me  of  your  charge  for  said  poem.  Our 
means  are  limited,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Yours  with  respect.” 

“ I remember  being  asked  by  a celebrated  man  of  letters  to 
let  him  look  over  an  early,  but  somewhat  elaborate  poem  of 
mine.  He  read  the  manuscript  and  suggested  the  change  of 
one  word,  which  I adopted  in  deference  to  his  opinion.  The 
emendation  was  anything  but  an  improvement,  and  in  later 
editions  the  passage  reads  as  when  first  written. 


48  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 
Here  it  is,  — with  the  slight  alterations."* 

Come  I fill  a fresh  bumper, — ^for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  aootar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow! 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rk-h  juicce  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuflf 

Till  o’er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shall  run. 


half-ripened  apples 

The  purple-glebed  elastefs  their  life-dews  have  bled ; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fr-agranec  they-ehed- ! 

rank  poisons  wines  ! ! ! 

For  summer’s  last^eses  lie  hid  in  the  wines 

stable-boys  smoking  long-ninei. 

That  were  garnered  by  maidcne  who  laughed  threngh  the-roes 


scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a and  a glass,  and  a toast,  and  a checf, 


strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 


In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall. 


Down,  down,  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all ! 


The  company  said  I had  been  shabbily  treated,  and 
advised  me  to  charge  the  committee  double, — which 
I did.  But  as  I never  got  my  pay,  I don’t  know  that 
it  made  much  difference.  I am  a very  particular 

“ I recollect  a British  criticism  of  the  poem  “ with  the  slight 
alterations,”  in  which  the  writer  was  quite  indignant  at  the 
treatment  my  convivial  song  had  received.  No  committee,  he 
thought,  would  dare  to  treat  a Scotch  author  in  that  way.  I 
could  not  help  being  reminded  of  Sydney  Smith,  and  the  surgi- 
cal operation  he  proposed,  in  order  to  get  a pleasantry  into  the 
head  of  a North  Briton. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  49 

person  about  having  all  I write  printed  as  I write  it. 
I require  to  see  a proof,  a revise,  a re-revise,  and  a 
double  re-revise,  or  fourth-proof  rectified  impression 
of  all  my  productions,  especially  verse.  A misprint 
kills  a sensitive  author.  An  intentional  change  of  his 
text  murders  him.  No  wonder  so  many  poets  die 
young! 

I have  nothing  more  to  report  at  this  time,  except 
two  pieces  of  advice  I gave  to  the  young  women  at 
table.  One  relates  to  a vulgarism  of  language, 
which  I grieve  to  say  is  sometimes  heard  even  from 
female  lips.  The  other  is  of  more  serious  purport, 
and  applies  to  such  as  contemplate  a change  of  condi- 
tion,— matrimony,  in  fact. 

— The  woman  who  ‘‘  calc’lates  ” is  lost. 

— Put  not  your  trust  m money,  but  put  your 
money  in  trust. 


III. 

[The  ‘‘  Atlantic  ” obeys  the  moon,  and  its  Luni- 
VERSARY  has  come  round  again.  I have  gathered  up 
some  hasty  notes  of  my  remarks  made  since  the  last 
high  tides,  which  I respectfully  submit.  Please  to 
remember  this  is  talk ; just  as  easy  and  just  as  for- 
mal as  I choose  to  make  it.] 

— I never  saw  an  author  in  my  life  — saving,  per- 
haps, one  — that  did  not  purr  as  audibly  as  a full- 
grown  domestic  cat  {Felis  Catus^  Linn.)  on  having 
his  fur  smoothed  in  the  right  way  by  a skilful  hand. 

But  let  me  give  you  a caution.  Be  very  careful 
how  you  tell  an  author  he  is  droll.  Ten  to  one  he  will 
hate  you ; and  if  he  does,  be  sure  he  can  do  you  a 
4 


50  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABUE. 

mischief,  and  very  probably  will.  Say  you  cried  over 
his  romance  or  his  verses,  and  he  will  love  you  and 
send  you  a copy.  You  can  laugh  over  that  as  much 
as  you  like,  — in  private. 

— W onder  why  authors  and  actors  are  ashamed  of 
being  funny  ? — Why,  there  are  obvious  reasons,  and 
deep  philosophical  ones.  The  clown  knows  very  well 
that  the  women  are  not  in  love  with  him,  but  with 
Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  the  black  cloak  and  plumed  hat. 
Passion  never  laughs.  The  wit  knows  that  his  place 
is  at  the  tail  of  a procession. 

If  you  want  the  deep  underlying  reason,  I must 
take  more  time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a perfect  con- 
sciousness in  every  form  of  wit,  — using  that  term  in 
its  general  sense,  — that  its  essence  consists  in  a par- 
tial and  incomplete  view  of  whatever  it  touches.  It 
throws  a single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest,  — red, 
yellow,  blue,  or  any  intermediate  shade,  — upon  an 
object ; never  white  light ; that  is  the  province  of  wis- 
dom. W e get  beautiful  effects  from  wit,  — all  the 
prismatic  colors,  — but  never  the  object  as  it  is  in  fair 
daylight.  A pun,  which  is  a kind  of  wit,  is  a differ- 
ent and  much  shallower  trick  in  mental  optics  ; throw- 
ing the  shadows  of  two  objects  so  that  one  overlies 
the  other.  Poetry  uses  the  rainbow  tints  for  special 
effects,  but  always  keeps  its  essential  object  in  the 
purest  white  light  of  truth.  — Will  you  allow  me  to 
pursue  this  subject  a little  farther? 

[They  did  n’t  allow  me  at  that  time,  for  somebody 
happened  to  scrape  the  floor  with  his  chair  just  then  ; 
which  accidental  sound,  as  all  must  have  noticed,  has 
the  instantaneous  effect  that  the  cutting  of  the  yellow 
hair  by  Iris  had  upon  infelix  Dido.  It  broke  the 
charm,  and  that  breakfast  was  over.] 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  51 

— Don’t  flatter  yourselves  that  friendship  author- 
izes you  to  say  disagreeable  things  to  your  intimates. 
On  the  contrary,  the  nearer  you  come  into  relation 
with  a person,  the  more  necessary  do  tact  and  courtesy 
become.  Except  in  cases  of  necessity,  which  are  rare, 
leave  your  friend  to  learn  unpleasant  truths  from  his 
enemies  ; they  are  ready  enough  to  tell  them.  Good- 
breeding never  forgets  that  amour-propre  is  univer- 
sal. When  you  read  the  story  of  the  Archbishop 
and  Gil  Bias,  you  may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  the  poor 
old  man’s  delusion  ; but  don’t  forget  that  the  youth 
was  the  greater  fool  of  the  two,  and  that  his  master 
served  such  a booby  rightly  in  turning  him  out  of 
doors. 

— You  need  not  get  up  a rebellion  against  what  I 
say,  if  you  find  everything  in  my  sayings  is  not  ex- 
actly new.  You  can’t  possibly  mistake  a man  who 
means  to  be  honest  for  a literary  pickpocket.  I once 
read  an  introductory  lecture  that  looked  to  me  too 
learned  for  its  latitude.  On  examination,  I found  all 
its  erudition  was  taken  ready-made  from  Disraeli.  If 
I had  been  ill-natured,  I should  have  shown  up  the 
little  great  man,  who  had  once  belabored  me  in  his 
feeble  way.  But  one  can  generally  tell  these  whole- 
sale thieves  easily  enough,  and  they  are  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  putting  them  in  the  pillory.  I doubt  the 
entire  novelty  of  my  remarks  just  made  on  telling 
unpleasant  truths,  yet  I am  not  conscious  of  any  lar- 
ceny. 

Neither  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional  over- 
statements. Some  persons  seem  to  think  that  abso- 
lute truth,  in  the  form  of  rigidly  stated  propositions, 
is  all  that  conversation  admits.  This  is  precisely  as  if 
a musician  should  insist  on  having  nothing  but  perfect 


UWV»SITY  or  IlUIKKS 


52  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

chords  and  simple  melodies,  — no  diminished  fifths, 
no  flat  sevenths,  no  flourishes,  on  any  account.  Now 
it  is  fair  to  say,  that,  just  as  music  must  have  all 
these,  so  conversation  must  have  its  partial  truths,  its 
embellished  truths,  its  exaggerated  truths.  It  is  in  its 
higher  forms  an  artistic  product,  and  admits  the  ideal 
element  as  much  as  pictures  or  statues.  One  man 
who  is  a little  too  literal  can  spoil  the  talk  of  a whole 
tableful  of  men  of  esprit.  — ‘‘Yes,”  you  say,  “but 
who  wants  to  hear  fanciful  people’s  nonsense  ? Put 
the  facts  to  it,  and  then  see  where  it  is  ! ” — Certainly, 
if  a man  is  too  fond  of  paradox,  — if  he  is  flighty  and 
empty,  — if,  instead  of  striking  those  fifths  and  sev- 
enths, those  harmonious  discords,  often  so  much  bet- 
ter than  the  twinned  octaves,  in  the  music  of  thought, 
— if,  instead  of  striking  these,  he  jangles  the  chords, 
stick  a fact  into  him  like  a stiletto.  But  remember 
that  talking  is  one  of  the  fine  arts,  — the  noblest,  the 
most  important,  and  the  most  difiicult,  — and  that  its 
fluent  harmonies  may  be  spoiled  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
single  harsh  note.  Therefore  conversation  which  is 
suggestive  rather  than  argumentative,  which  lets  out 
the  most  of  each  talker’s  results  of  thought,  is  com- 
monly the  pleasantest  and  the  most  profitable.  It  is 
not  easy,  at  the  best,  for  two  persons  talking  together 
to  make  the  most  of  each  other’s  thoughts,  there  are 
so  many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an  explana- 
tion.] 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talking 
together,  it  is  natural  enough  that  among  the  six 
there  should  be  more  or  less  confusion  and  misappre- 
hension. 

[Our  landlady  turned  pale ; — no  doubt  she  thought 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  63 


there  was  a screw  loose  in  my  intellects,  — and  that 
involved  the  probable  loss  of  a boarder.  A severe- 
looking  person,  who  wears  a Spanish  cloak  and  a sad 
cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of  the  melodrama,  whom 
I understand  to  be  the  professional  ruffian  of  the 
neighboring  theatre,  alluded,  with  a certain  lifting  of 
the  brow,  drawing  down  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
and  somewhat  rasping  voce  di  petto^  to  Falstaff’s  nine 
men  in  buckram.  Everybody  looked  up ; I believe 
the  old  gentleman  opposite  was  afraid  I should  seize 
the  carving-knife ; at  any  rate,  he  slid  it  to  one  side, 
as  it  were  carelessly.] 

I think,  I said,  I can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin 
Franklin  here,  that  there  are  at  least  six  personalities 
distinctly  to  be  recognized  as  taking  part  in  that  dia- 
logue between  John  and  Thomas. 


'1.  The  real  John;  known  only  to  his  Maker. 

2.  John’s  ideal  John  ; never  the  real  one,  and 
Three  Johns.  often  very  unlike  him. 

3.  Thomas’s  ideal  John;  never  the  real  John, 
nor  John’s  John,  but  often  very  unlike  either. 
' 1.  The  real  Thomas. 

Three  Thomases.  ^ 2.  Thomas’s  ideal  Thomas. 

3.  John’s  ideal  Thomas. 


Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed ; only  one  can 
be  weighed  on  a platform-balance ; but  the  other  two 
are  just  as  important  in  the  conversation.  Let  us 
suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old,  dull,  and  ill-looking. 
But  as  the  Higher  Powers  have  not  conferred  on  men 
the  gift  of  seeing  themselves  in  the  true  light,  John 
very  possibly  conceives  himself  to  be  youthful,  witty, 
and  fascinating,  and  talks  from  the  point  of  view  of 
this  ideal.  Thomas,  again,  believes  himjto  be  an  art- 
ful rogue,  we  will  say ; therefore  he  is,  so  far  as 
Thomas’s  attitude  in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an 


54  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

artful  rogue,  though  really  simple  and  stupid.  The 
same  conditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It  fol- 
lows, that,  until  a man  can  be  found  who  knows  him- 
self as  his  Maker  knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself  as 
others  see  him,  there  must  be  at  least  six  persons  en- 
gaged in  every  dialogue  between  two.  Of  these,  the 
least  important,  philosophically  speaking,  is  the  one 
that  we  have  called  the  real  person.  No  wonder  two 
disputants  often  get  angry,  when  there  are  six  of  them 
talking  and  listening  all  at  the  same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above 
remarks  was  made  by  a young  fellow  answering  to  the 
name  of  J ohn,  who  sits  near  me  at  table.  A certain 
basket  of  peaches,  a rare  vegetable,  little  known  to 
boarding-houses,  was  on  its  way  to  me  md  this  unlet- 
tered Johannes.  He  appropriated  the  three  that  re- 
mained in  the  basket,  remarking  that  there  was  just 
one  apiece  for  him.  I convinced  him  that  his  practi- 
cal inference  was  hasty  and  illogical,  but  in  the  mean 
time  he  had  eaten  the  peaches.] 

— The  opinions  of  relatives  as  to  a man’s  powers 
are  very  commonly  of  little  value ; not  merely  because 
they  sometimes  overrate  their  own  flesh  and  blood,  as 
some  may  suppose ; on  the  contrary,  they  are  quite  as 
likely  to  underrate  those  whom  they  have  grown  into 
the  habit  of  considering  like  themselves.  The  advent 
of  genius  is  like  what  florists  style  the  hreahing  of  a 
seedling  tulip  into  what  we  may  call  high-caste  colors, 
— ten  thousand  dingy  flowers,  then  one  with  the  di- 
vine streak ; or,  if  you  prefer  it,  like  the  coming  up 
in  old  Jacob’s  garden  of  that  most  gentlemanly*  little 
fruit,  the  seckel  pear,  which  I have  sometimes  seen  in 
shop-windows.  It  is  a surprise,  — there  is  nothing  to 
account  for  it.  All  at  once  we  find  that  twice  two 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  55 

make  five.  Nature  is  fond  of  what  are  called  “gift- 
enterprises.”  This  little  book  of  life  which  she  has 
given  into  the  hands  of  its  joint  possessors  is  com- 
monly one  of  the  old  story-books  bound  over  again. 
Only  once  in  a great  while  there  is  a stately  poem  in 
it,  or  its  leaves  are  illuminated  with  the  glories  of  art, 
or  they  enfold  a draft  for  untold  values  signed  by  the 
million-fold  millionnaire  old  mother  herself.  But 
strangers  are  commonly  the  first  to  find  the  “ gift  ” 
that  came  with  the  little  book. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  anything  can  be  con- 
scious of  its  own  flavor.  Whether  the  musk-deer,  or 
the  civet-cat,  or  even  a still  more  eloquently  silent 
animal  that  might  be  mentioned,  is  aware  of  any  per- 
sonal peculiarity,  may  well  be  doubted.  No  man 
knows  his  own  voice ; many  men  do  not  know  their 
own  profiles.  Every  one  remembers  Carlyle’s  famous 
“Characteristics”  article;  allow  for  exaggerations, 
and  there  is  a great  deal  in  his  doctrine  of  the  self- 
imconsciousness  of  genius.  It  comes  under  the  great 
law  just  stated.  This  incapacity  of  knowing  its  own 
traits  is  often  found  in  the  family  as  well  as  in  the 
individual.  So  never  mind  what  your  cousins,  broth- 
ers, sisters,  uncles,  aunts,  and  the  rest,  say  about  that 
fine  poem  you  have  written,  but  send  it  (postage-paid) 
to  the  editors,  if  there  are  any,  of  the  “Atlantic,”  — 
which,  by  the  way,  is  not  so  called  because  it  is  a no- 
tion., as  some  dull  wits  wish  they  had  said,  but  are  too 
late. 

— Scientific  knowledge,  even  in  the  most  modest 
persons,  has  mingled  with  it  a something  which  par- 
takes of  insolence.  Absolute,  peremptory  facts  are 
bullies,  and  those  who  keep  company  with  them  are 
apt  to  get  a bullying  habit  of  mind; — not  of  manners, 


56  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

perhaps ; they  may  be  soft  and  smooth,  but  the  smile 
they  carry  has  a quiet  assertion  in  it,  such  as  the 
Champion  of  the  Heavy  Weights,  commonly  the  best- 
natured,  but  not  the  most  diffident  of  men,  wears  upon 
what  he  very  inelegantly  calls  his  ‘‘  mug.”  ' Take  the 
man,  for  instance,  who  deals  in  the  mathematical  sci- 
ences. There  is  no  elasticity  in  a mathematical  fact ; 
if  you  bring  up  against  it,  it  never  yields  a hair’s 
breadth ; everything  must  go  to  pieces  that  comes  in 
collision  with  it.  What  the  mathematician  knows 
being  absolute,  unconditional,  incapable  of  suffering 
question,  it  should  tend,  in  the  nature  of  things,  to 
breed  a despotic  way  of  thinking.  So  of  those  who 
deal  with  the  palpable  and  often  unmistakable  facts 
of  external  nature;  only  in  a less  degree.  Every 
probability  — and  most  of  our  common,  working  be- 
liefs are  probabilities  — is  provided  with  buffers  at 
both  ends,  which  break  the  force  of  opposite  opinions 
clashing  against  it;  but  scientific  certainty  has  no 
spring  in  it,  no  courtesy,  no  possibility  of  yielding. 
All  this  must  react  on  the  minds  which  handle  these 
forms  of  truth. 

— Oh,  you  need  not  tell  me  that  Messrs.  A.  and  B. 
are  the  most  gracious,  unassuming  people  in  the  world, 
and  yet  preeminent  in  the  ranges  of  science  I am  re- 
ferring to.  I know  that  as  well  as  you.  But  mark 
this  which  I am  going  to  say  once  for  all : If  I had 
not  force  enough  to  project  a principle  full  in  the  face 
of  the  half  dozen  most  obvious  facts  which  seem  to 
contradict  it,  I would  think  only  in  single  file  from 
this  day  forward.  A rash  man,  once  visiting  a certain 
noted  institution  at  South  Boston,  ventured  to  express 
the  sentiment,  that  man  is  a rational  being.  An  old 
woman  who  was  an  attendant  in  the  Idiot  School  con- 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  67 


tradicted  the  statement,  and  appealed  to  the  facts  be- 
fore the  speaker  to  disprove  it.  The  rash  man  stuck 
to  his  hasty  generalization,  notwithstanding. 

[ — It  is  my  desire  to  be  useful  to  those  with  whom 
I am  associated  in  my  daily  relations.  I not  unfre- 
quently  practise  the  divine  art  of  music  in  company 
with  our  landlady’s  daughter,  who,  as  I mentioned  be- 
fore, is  the  owner  of  an  accordion.  Having  myself  a 
well-marked  barytone  voice  of  more  than  half  an  oc- 
tave in  compass,  I sometimes  add  my  vocal  powers  to 
her  execution  of 

“ Thou,  thou  reign’ St  in  this  bosom,” 

not,  however,  unless  her  mother  or  some  other  discreet 
female  is  present,  to  prevent  misinterpretation  or  re- 
mark. I have  also  taken  a good  deal  of  interest  in 
Benjamin  Franklin,  before  referred  to,  sometimes 
called  B.  F.,  or  more  frequently  Frank,  in  imitation  of 
that  felicitous  abbreviation,  combining  dignity  and 
convenience,  adopted  by  some  of  his  betters.  My  ac- 
quaintance with  the  French  language  is  very  imperfect, 
I having  never  studied  it  anywhere  but  in  P aris,  which 
is  awkward,  as  B.  F.  devotes  himself  to  it  with  the 
peculiar  advantage  of  an  Alsacian  teacher.  The  boy, 
I think,  is  doing  well,  between  us,  notwithstanding. 
The  following  is  an  uncorrected  French  exercise, 
written  by  this  young  gentleman.  His  mother  thinks 
it  very  creditable  to  his  abilities  ; though,  being  unac- 
quainted with  the  French  language,  her  judgment  can- 
not be  considered  final. 


58  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Le  Rat  des  Salons  a Lecture. 

Ce  rat  91  est  un  animal  fort  singulier.  II  a deux  pattes  de 
derriere  sur  lesquelles  il  marclie,  et  deux  pattes  de  devant  dont 
il  fait  usage  pour  tenir  les  journaux.  Get  animal  a la  peau 
noire  pour  le  plupart,  et  porte  un  cercle  blanchatre  autour  de  son 
cou.  On  le  trouve  tons  les  jours  aux  dits  salons,  ou  il  demeure, 
digere,  s’il  y a de  quoi  dans  son  interieur,  respire,  tousse,  eter- 
nue,  dort,  et  ronfle  quelquefois,  ayant  toujours  le  semblant  de 
lire.  On  ne  sait  pas  s’il  a une  autre  gite  que  9ela.  Il  a Pair 
d’une  bete  tres  stupide,  mais  il  est  d’une  sagacite  et  d’une  vitesse 
extraordinaire  quand  il  s'agit  de  saisir  un  journal  nouveau.  On 
ne  sait  pas  pourquoi  il  lit,  parcequ’il  ne  parait  pas  avoir  des 
idees.  Il  vocalise  rarement,  mais  en  revanche,  il  fait  des  bruits 
nasaux  divers.  Il  porte  un  crayon  dans  une  de  ses  poches  pec- 
torales,  avec  lequel  il  fait  des  marques  sur  les  bords  des  jour- 
naux  et  des  livres,  semblable  aux  suivans  : 1 ! ! — Bah!  Pooh  I 
Il  ne  faut  pas  cependant  les  prendre  pour  des  signes  d’intellb 
gence.  Il  ne  vole  pas,  ordinairement  ; il  fait  rarement  meme 
des  echanges  de  parapluie,  et  jamais  de  chapeau,  parceque  son 
chapeau  a toujours  un  caractere  specifique.  On  ne  sait  pas  au 
juste  ce  dont  il  se  nourrit.  Feu  Cuvier  dtait  d’avis  que  c’etait 
de  Todeur  du  cuir  des  reliures ; ce  qu’on  dit  d’etre  une  nourri- 
ture  animale  fort  saine,  et  peu  ch^re.  Il  vit  bien  longtems.  Enfin 
il  meure,  en  laissant  a ses  hdritiers  une  carte  du  Salon  a Lecture 
ou  il  avait  existe  pendant  sa  vie.  On  pretend  qu’il  revient  toutes 
les  nuits,  apres  la  mort,  visiter  le  Salon.  On  pent  le  voir,  dit 
on,  h minuit,  dans  sa  place  habituelle,  tenant  le  journal  du  soir, 
et  ayant  k sa  main  un  crayon  de  charbon.  Le  lendemain  on 
trouve  des  caracteres  inconnus  sur  les  bords  du  journal.  Ce  qui 
prouve  que  le  spiritualisme  est  vrai,  et  que  Messieurs  les  Pro- 
fesseurs  de  Cambridge  sont  des  imbe9iles  qui  ne  savent  rien  du 
tout,  du  tout. 

I think  this  exercise,  which  I have  not  corrected,  or 
allowed  to  be  touched  in  any  way,  is  not  discreditable 
to  B.  F.  You  observe  that  he  is  acquiring  a knowl- 
edge of  zoology  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  learning 
French.  Fathers  of  families  in  moderate  circumstances 
will  find  it  profitable  to  their  children,  and  an  econom- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  59 

ical  mode  of  instruction,  to  set  them  to  revising  and 
amending  this  boy’s  exercise.  The  passage  was  orig- 
inally taken  from  the  “ Histoire  Naturelle  des  Betes 
Euminans  et  Rongeurs,  Bipddes  et  Autres,”  lately 
published  in  Paris.  This  was  translated  into  English 
and  published  in  London.  It  was  republished  at 
Great  Pedlington,  with  notes  and  additions  by  the 
American  editor.  The  notes  consist  of  an  interroga- 
tion-mark on  page  53d,  and  a reference  (p.  127th)  to 
another  book  “edited”  by  the  same  hand.  The  ad- 
ditions consist  of  the  editor’s  name  on  the  title-page 
and  back,  with  a complete  and  authentic  list  of  said 
editor’s  honorary  titles  in  the  first  of  these  localities. 
Our  boy  translated  the  translation  back  into  French. 
This  may  be  compared  with  the  original,  to  be  found 
on  Shelf  13,  Division  X,  of  the  Public  Library  of  this 
metropolis.] 

— Some  of  you  boarders  ask  me  from  time  to  time 
why  I don’t  write  a story,  or  a novel,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  Instead  of  answering  each  one  of  you  sep- 
arately, I will  thank  you  to  step  up  into  the  whole- 
sale department  for  a few  moments,  where  I deal  in 
answers  by  the  piece  and  by  the  bale. 

That  every  articulately-speaking  human  being  has 
in  him  stuff  for  one  novel  in  three  volumes  duodecimo 
has  long  been  with  me  a cherished  belief.  It  has 
been  maintained,  on  the  other  hand,  that  many  persons 
cannot  write  more  than  one  novel,  — that  all  after 
that  are  likely  to  be  failures.  — Life  is  so  much  more 
tremendous  a thing  in  its  heights  and  depths  than 
any  transcript  of  it  can  be,  that  all  records  of  human 
experience  are  as  so  many  bound  herb  aria  to  the  in- 
numerable glowing,  glistening,  rustling,  breathing,  fra- 
grance-laden, poison-sucking,  life-giving,  death-distill- 


60  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

ing  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  forest  and  the  prairies.  All 
we  can  do  with  books  of  human  experience  is  to  make 
them  alive  again  with  something  borrowed  from  our 
own  lives.  W e can  make  a book  alive  for  us  just  in 
proportion  to  its  resemblance  in  essence  or  in  form  to 
our  own  experience.  Now  an  author’s  first  novel  is 
naturally  drawn,  to  a great  extent,  from  his  personal 
experiences ; that  is,  is  a literal  copy  of  nature  under 
various  slight  disguises.  But  the  moment  the  author 
gets  out  of  his  personality,  he  must  have  the  creative 
power,  as  well  as  the  narrative  art  and  the  sentiment, 
in  order  to  tell  a living  story ; and  this  is  rare. 

Besides,  there  is  great  danger  that  a man’s  first  life- 
story  shall  clean  him  out,  so  to  speak,  of  his  best 
thoughts.  Most  lives,  though  their  stream  is  loaded 
with  sand  and  turbid  with  alluvial  waste,  drop  a few 
golden  grains  of  wisdom  as  they  flow  along.  Often- 
times a single  cradling  gets  them  all,  and  after  that 
the  poor  man’s  labor  is  only  rewarded  by  mud  and 
worn  pebbles.  All  which  proves  that  I,  as  an  individ- 
ual of  the  human  family,  could  write  one  novel  or  story 
at  any  rate,  if  I would. 

— Why  don’t  I,  then  ? — W ell,  there  are  several 
reasons  against  it.  In  the  first  place,  I should  tell  all 
my  secrets,  and  I maintain  that  verse  is  the  proper 
medium  for  such  revelations.  Rhythm  and  rhyme 
and  the  harmonies  of  musical  language,  the  play  of 
fancy,  the  fire  of  imagination,  the  flashes  of  passion, 
so  hide  the  nakedness  of  a heart  laid  open,  that  hardly 
any  confession,  transfigured  in  the  luminous  halo  of 
poetry,  is  reproached  as  self-exposure.  A beauty 
shows  herself  under  the  chandeliers,  protected  by  the 
glitter  of  her  diamonds,  with  such  a broad  snow-drift 
of  white  arms  and  shoulders  laid  bare,  that,  were  she 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  61 


unadorned  and  in  plain  calico,  she  would  be  unendura- 
ble — in  the  opinion  of  the  ladies. 

Again,  I am  terribly  afraid  I should  show  up  all 
my  friends.  I should  like  to  know  if  all  story-tellers 
do  not  do  this?  Now  I am  afraid  all  my  friends 
would  not  bear  showing  up  very  well ; for  they  have 
an  average  share  of  the  common  weakness  of  hu- 
manity, which  I am  pretty  certain  would  come  out. 
Of  all  that  have  told  stories  among  us  there  is  hardly 
one  I can  recall  who  has  not  drawn  too  faithfully 
some  living  portrait  which  might  better  have  been 
spared. 

Once  more,  I have  sometimes  thought  it  possible  I 
might  be  too  dull  to  write  such  a story  as  I should 
wish  to  write. 

And  finally,  I think  it  very  likely  I shall  write  a 
story  one  of  these  days.  Don’t  be  surprised  at  any 
time,  if  you  see  me  coming  out  with  “ The  School- 
mistress,’’ or  The  Old  Gentleman  Opposite.”  [ Our 
schoolmistress  and  our  old  gentleman  that  sits  oppo- 
site had  left  the  table  before  I said  this.]  I want  my 
glory  for  writing  the  same  discounted  now,  on  the 
spot,  if  you  please.  I will  write  when  I get  ready. 
How  many  people  live  on  the  reputation  of  the  repu- 
tation they  might  have  made  ! 

— I saw  you  smiled  when  I spoke  about  the  possi- 
bility of  my  being  too  dull  to  write  a good  story.  I 
don’t  pretend  to  know  what  you  meant  by  it,  but  I 
take  occasion  to  make  a remark  which  may  hereafter 
prove  of  value  to  some  among  you.  — When  one  of 
us  who  has  been  led  by  native  vanity  or  senseless  flat- 
tery to  think  himself  or  herself  possessed  of  talent 
arrives  at  the  full  and  final  conclusion  that  he  or  she 
is  really  dull,  it  is  one  of  the  most  tranquillizing  and 


62  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

blessed  convictions  that  can  enter  a mortal’s  mind. 
All  our  failures,  our  short-comings,  our  strange  disap- 
pointments in  the  effect  of  our  efforts  are  lifted  from 
our  bruised  shoulders,  and  fall,  like  Christian’s  pack, 
at  the  feet  of  that  Omnipotence  which  has  seen  fit  to 
deny  us  the  pleasant  gift  of  high  intelligence,  — with 
which  one  look  may  overflow  us  in  some  wider  sphere 
of  being. 

— How  sweetly  and  honestly  one  said  to  me  the 
other  day,  ‘‘1  hate  books  ! ” A gentleman,  — singu- 
larly free  from  affectations,  — not  learned,  of  course, 
but  of  perfect  breeding,  which  is  often  so  much  better 
than  learning,  — by  no  means  dull,  in  the  sense  of 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  society,  but  certainly  not 
clever  either  in  the  arts  or  sciences,  — his  company  is 
pleasing  to  all  who  know  him.  I did  not  recognize  in 
him  inferiority  of  literary  taste  half  so  distinctly  as  I 
did  simplicity  of  character  and  fearless  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  inaptitude  for  scholarship.  In  fact,  I 
think  there  are  a great  many  gentlemen  and  others, 
who  read  with  a mark  to  keep  their  place,  that  really 
hate  books,”  but  never  had  the  wit  to  find  it  out,  or 
the  manliness  to  own  it.  \Entre  nous^  I always  read 
with  a mark.] 

W e get  into  a way  of  thinking  as  if  what  we  call  an 
“ intellectual  man  ” was,  as  a matter  of  course,  made 
up  of  nine  tenths,  or  thereabouts,  of  book-learning,  and 
one  tenth  himself.  But  even  if  he  is  actually  so  com- 
pounded, he  need  not  read  much.  Society  is  a strong 
solution  of  books.  It  draws  the  virtue  out  of  what  is 
best  worth  reading,  as  hot  water  draws  the  strength  of 
tea-leaves.  If  I were  a prince,  I would  hire  or  buy  a 
private  literary  tea-pot,  in  which  I would  steep  all  the 
leaves  of  new  books  that  promised  well.  The  infusion 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  63 


would  do  for  me  without  the  vegetable  fibre.  You  un- 
derstand me ; I would  have  a person  whose  sole  busi- 
ness should  be  to  read  day  and  night,  and  talk  to  me 
whenever  I wanted  him  to.  I know  the  man  I would 
have : a quick-witted,  out-spoken,  incisive  fellow ; 
knows  history,  or  at  any  rate  has  a shelf  full  of  books 
about  it,  which  he  can  use  handily,  and  the  same  of 
all  useful  arts  and  sciences ; knows  all  the  common 
plots  of  plays  and  novels,  and  the  stock  company  of 
characters  that  are  continually  coming  on  in  new  cos- 
tume ; can  give  you  a criticism  of  an  octavo  in  an  ep- 
ithet and  a wink,  and  you  can  depend  on  it ; cares  for 
nobody  except  for  the  virtue  there  is  in  what  he  says ; 
delights  in  taking  off  big  wigs  and  professional  gowns, 
and  in  the  disembalming  and  unbandaging  of  all  lit- 
erary mummies.  Yet  he  is  as  tender  and  reverential 
to  all  that  bears  the  mark  of  genius,  — that  is,  of  a 
new  infiux  of  truth  or  beauty,  — as  a nun  over  her 
missal.  In  short,  he  is  one  of  those  men  that  know 
everything  except  how  to  make  a living.  Him  would 
1 keep  on  the  square  next  my  own  royal  compartment 
on  life’s  chessboard.  To  him  I would  push  up  another 
pawn,  in  the  shape  of  a comely  and  wise  young  woman, 
whom  he  would  of  course  take,  — to  wife.  For  all 
contingencies  I would  liberally  provide.  In  a word, 
I would,  in  the  plebeian,  but  expressive  phrase,  ‘‘  put 
him  through”  all  the  material  part  of  life;  see  him 
sheltered,  warmed,  fed,  button-mended,  and  all  that, 
just  to  be  able  to  lay  on  his  talk  when  I liked,  — with 
the  privilege  of  shutting  it  off  at  will. 

A Club  is  the  next  best  thing  to  this,  strung  like  a 
harp,  with  about  a dozen  ringing  intelligences,"  each 

® The  “ Saturday  Club,’’  before  referred  to,  answered  as  well 
to  this  description  as  some  others  better  known  to  history. 


64  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

answering  to  some  chord  of  the  macrocosm.  They  do 
well  to  dine  together  once  in  a while.  A dinner-party 
made  up  of  such  elements  is  the  last  triumph  of  civil- 
ization over  barbarism.  Nature  and  art  combine  to 
charm  the  senses  ; the  equatorial  zone  of  the  system  is 
soothed  by  well-studied  artifices  ; the  faculties  are  off 
duty,  and  fall  into  their  natural  attitudes ; you  see 
wisdom  in  slippers  and  science  in  a short  jacket. 

The  whole  force  of  conversation  depends  on  how 
much  you  can  take  for  granted.  Vulgar  chess-players 
have  to  play  their  game  out ; nothing  short  of  the 
brutality  of  an  actual  checkmate  satisfies  their  dull 
apprehensions.  But  look  at  two  masters  of  that  noble 
game  ! White  stands  well  enough,  so  far  as  you  can 
see ; but  Bed  says.  Mate  in  six  moves ; — White  looks, 
— nods  ; — the  game  is  over.  Just  so  in  talking  with 
first-rate  men ; especially  when  they  are  good-natured 
and  expansive,  as  they  are  apt  to  be  at  table.  That 
blessed  clairvoyance  which  sees  into  things  without 
opening  them,  — that  glorious  license,  which,  having 
shut  the  door  and  driven  the  reporter  from  its  key- 
hole, calls  upon  Truth,  majestic  virgin ! to  get  down 
from  her  pedestal  and  drop  her  academic  poses,  and 
take  a festive  garland  and  the  vacant  place  on  the 
medius  lectus^  — that  carnival-shower  of  questions  and 
replies  and  comments,  large  axioms  bowled  over  the 
mahogany  like  bomb-shells  from  professional  mortars, 
and  explosive  wit  dropping  its  trains  of  many-colored 
fire,  and  the  mischief-making  rain  of  hon-hons  pelt- 
ing everybody  that  shows  himself,  — the  picture  of 
a truly  intellectual  banquet  is  one  which  the  old  Di- 

Mathematics,  music,  art,  the  physical  and  biological  sciences,  his- 
tory, philosophy,  poetry,  and  other  branches  of  imaginative  liter- 
ature were  all  represented  by  masters  in  their  several  realms. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  65 


vinities  might  well  have  attempted  to  reproduce  in 
their  — 

— ‘‘  Oh,  oh,  oh ! ” cried  the  young  fellow  whom 
they  call  John, — ‘*^that  is  from  one  of  your  lec- 
tures ! ” 

I know  it,  I replied,  — I concede  it,  I confess  it,  pro- 
claim it. 

“ The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all  ! 

All  lecturers,  all  professors,  all  schoolmasters,  have 
ruts  and  grooves  in  their  minds  into  which  their  con- 
versation is  perpetually  sliding.  Did  you  never,  in 
riding  through  the  woods  of  a still  June  evening,  sud- 
denly feel  that  you  had  passed  into  a warm  stratum  of 
air,  and  in  a minute  or  two  strike  the  chill  layer  of  at- 
mosphere beyond  ? Did  you  never,  in  cleaving  the 
green  waters  of  the  Back  Bay,  — where  the  Provin- 
cial blue-noses  are  in  the  habit  of  beating  the  Met- 
ropolitan ” boat-clubs,  — find  yourself  in  a tepid  streak, 
a narrow,  local  gulf-stream,  a gratuitous  warm-bath 
a little  underdone,  through  which  your  glistening 
shoulders  soon  flashed,  to  bring  you  back  to  the  cold 
realities  of  full-sea  temperature  ? J ust  so,  in  talking 
with  any  of  the  characters  above  referred  to,  one  not 
unfrequently  finds  a sudden  change  in  the  style  of  the 
conversation.  The  lack-lustre  eye,  rayless  as  a Beacon- 
Street  door-plate  in  August,  all  at  once  fills  with 
light ; the  face  flings  itself  wide  open  like  the  church- 
portals  when  the  bride  and  bridegoom  enter;  the 
little  man  grows  in  stature  before  your  eyes,  like  the 
small  prisoner  with  hair  on  end,  beloved  yet  dreaded 
of  early  childhood;  you  were  talking  with  a dwarf 
and  an  imbecile,  — you  have  a giant  and  a trumpet- 
tongued  angel  before  you ! — Nothing  but  a streak  out 


66  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


of  a fifty-dollar  lecture.  — As  when,  at  some  unlooked- 
for  moment,  the  mighty  fountain-column  springs  into 
the  air  before  the  astonished  passer-by,  — silver-footed, 
diamond-crowned,  rainbow-scarfed,  — from  the  bosom 
of  that  fair  sheet,  sacred  to  the  hymns  of  quiet  batra- 
chians  at  home,  and  the  epigrams  of  a less  amiable  and 
less  elevated  order  of  reptilia  in  other  latitudes. 

— Who  was  that  person  that  was  so  abused  some 
time  since  for  saying  that  in  the  conflict  of  two  races 
our  sympathies  naturally  go  with  the  higher?  No 
matter  who  he  was.  Now  look  at  what  is  going  on  in 
India, — a white,  superior  ^‘Caucasian”  race,  against 
a dark-skinned,  inferior,  but  still  Caucasian  ” race, 
— and  where  are  English  and  American  sympathies  ? 
We  can’t  stop  to  settle  all  the  doubtful  questions  ; all 
we  know  is,  that  the  brute  nature  is  sure  to  come  out 
most  strongly  in  the  lower  race,  and  it  is  the  general 
law  that  the  human  side  of  humanity  should  treat  the 
brutal  side  as  it  does  the  same  nature  in  the  inferior 
animals,  — tame  it  or  crush  it.  The  India  mail  brings 
stories  of  women  and  children  outraged  and  mur- 
dered; the  royal  stronghold  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
babe-killers.  England  takes  down  the  Map  of  the 
World,  which  she  has  girdled  with  empire,  and  makes 
a correction  thus : Delhi.  Dele.  The  civilized  world 
says.  Amen. 

— Do  not  think,  because  I talk  to  you  of  many  sub- 
jects briefly,  that  I should  not  find  it  much  lazier  work 
to  take  each  one  of  them  and  dilute  it  down  to  an 
essay.  Borrow  some  of  my  old  college  themes  and 
water  my  remarks  to  suit  yourselves,  as  the  Homeric 
heroes  did  with  their  melas  oinos^  — that  black,  sweet, 
syrupy  wine  which  they  used  to  alloy  with  three  parts 
or  more  of  the  flowing  stream.  [Could  it  have  been 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  67 

melasses^  as  Webster  and  his  provincials  spell  it,  — or 
Molossa^s^  as  dear  old  smattering,  chattering,  would- 
be-CoUege-President,  Cotton  Mather,  has  it  in  the 
“ Magnalia  ” ? Ponder  thereon,  ye  small  antiquaries 
who  make  barn-door-fowl  flights  of  learning  in  Notes 
and  Queries ! ” — ye  Historical  Societies,  in  one  of 
whose  venerable  triremes  I,  too,  ascend  the  stream  of 
time,  while  other  hands  tug  at  the  oars  ! — ye  Amines 
of  parasitical  literature,  who  pick  up  your  grains  of 
native-grown  food  with  a bodkin,  having  gorged  upon 
less  honest  fare,  until,  like  the  great  minds  Goethe 
speaks  of,  you  have  ‘‘made  a Golgotha”  of  your  pages! 
— ponder  thereon  I] 

— Before  you  go,  this  morning,  I want  to  read  you 
a copy  of  verses.  You  will  understand  by  the  title 
that  they  are  written  in  an  imaginary  character.  I 
don’t  doubt  they  will  fit  some  family-man  well  enough. 
I send  it  forth  as  “ Oak  Hall  ” projects  a coat,  on  a 
'priori  grounds  of  conviction  that  it  will  suit  some- 
body. There  is  no  loftier  illustration  of  faith  than 
this.  It  believes  that  a soul  has  been  clad  in  flesh ; 
that  tender  parents  have  fed  and  nurtured  it ; that  its 
mysterious  compages  or  frame-work  has  survived  its 
myriad  exposures  and  reached  the  stature  of  matur- 
ity ; that  the  Man,  now  self-determining,  has  given  in 
his  adhesion  to  the  traditions  and  habits  of  the  race  in 
favor  of  artificial  clothing ; that  he  will,  having  all  the 
world  to  choose  from,  select  the  very  locality  where 
this  audacious  generalization  has  been  acted  upon.  It 
builds  a garment  cut  to  the  pattern  of  an  Idea,  and 
trusts  that  Nature  will  model  a material  shape  to  fit 
it.  There  is  a prophecy  in  every  seam,  and  its  pock- 
ets are  full  of  inspiration.  — Now  hear  the  verses. 


68  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

0 for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring! 

1 ’d  rather  laugh  a bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a gray-beard  king ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  I 
Away  with  learning’s  crown! 

Tear  out  life’s  wisdom-written  page, 
And  dash  its  trophies  down ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood’s  fount  of  flame! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 

— My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And  calmly  smiling,  said. 

If  I but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay. 

While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?  ’’ 

— Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind! 
Without  thee,  what  were  life? 

One  bliss  I cannot  leave  behind: 

I ’ll  take  — my  — precious  — wife  I 

— The  angel  took  a sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew. 

The  man  would  be  a boy  again. 

And  be  a husband  too!  ” 

— And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears  ? 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  69 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years!  ” 

Why,  yes ; for  memory  would  recall 
My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 

I could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all; 

I ’ll  take  — my  — girl  — and  — boys ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

“ Why  this  will  never  do; 

The  man  would  be  a boy  again. 

And  be  a father  too! 

And  so  I laughed,  — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


IV. 

[I  am  so  well  pleased  with  my  boarding-house  that 
I intend  to  remain  there,  perhaps  for  years.  Of 
course  I shall  have  a great  many  conversations  to  re- 
port, and  they  will  necessarily  be  of  different  tone 
and  on  different  subjects.  The  talks  are  like  the 
breakfasts, — sometimes  dipped  toast,  and  sometimes 
dry.  You  must  take  them  as  they  come.  How  can 
I do  what  all  these  letters  ask  me  to? " No.  1.  wants 

® The  letters  received  by  authors  from  unknown  correspond- 
ents form  a curious  and,  I believe,  almost  unrecorded  branch  of 
literature.  The  most  interesting  fact  connected  with  these  let- 
ters is  this.  If  a writer  has  a distinct  personality  of  character, 
an  intellectual  flavor  peculiarly  his  own,  and  his  writings  are 
somewhat  widely  spread  abroad,  he  will  meet  with  some,  and  it 
may  be  many,  readers  who  are  specially  attracted  to  him  by  a 
certain  singularly  strong  affinity.  A writer  need  not  be  sur- 
prised when  some  simple-hearted  creature,  evidently  perfectly 


70  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


serious  and  earnest  thouglit.  No.  2.  (letter  smells  of. 
bad  cigars)  must  have  more  jokes ; wants  me  to  tell  a 

good  storey  ” which  he  has  copied  out  for  me.  (I 
suppose  two  letters  before  the  word  ‘‘  good  ” refer  to 
some  Doctor  of  Divinity  who  told  the  story.)  No.  3. 
(in  female  hand)  — more  poetry.  No.  4.  wants  some- 
thing  that  would  be  of  use  to  a practical  mauo 
(^Prahctical  maJin  he  probably  pronounces  it.)  No. 
6.  (gilt-edged,  sweet-scented) — ‘^more  sentiment,”  — 
‘‘  heart’s  outpourings.”  — 

My  dear  friends,  one  and  all,  I can  do  nothing  but 

sincere,  with  no  poem  or  story  in  the  back-ground  for  which  he 
or  she  wants  your  critical  offices,  meaning  too  frequently  your 
praise,  and  nothing  else,  — when  this  kind  soul  assures  him  or 
her  that  he  or  she,  the  correspondent,  loves  to  read  the  pro- 
ductions of  him  or  her,  the  writer,  better  than  those  of  any 
other  author  living  or  dead.  There  is  no  need  of  accounting 
for  their  individual  preferences.  What  if  a reader  prefer  you 
to  the  classics,  whose  words  are  resounding  through  “ the  corri- 
dors of  time!”  You  probably  come  much  nearer  to  his  intel- 
lectual level.  The  rose  is  the  sweetest  growth  of  the  garden, 
but  shall  not  your  harmless,  necessary  cat  prefer  the  aroma  of 
that  antiquely  odorous  valerian,  not  unfamiliar  to  hysteric 
womanhood?  “How  can  we  stand  the  fine  things  that  are  said 
of  us?”  asked  one  of  a bright  New  Englander,  whom  New 
York  has  borrowed  from  us.  “ Because  we  feel  that  they  are 
/rwe,”  he  answered.  At  any  rate  if  they  are  true  for  those  who 
say  them,  we  need  not  quarrel  with  their  superlatives. 

But  what  revelations  are  to  be  read  in  these  letters!  From 
the  lisp  of  vanity,  commending  itself  to  the  attention  of  the 
object  of  its  admiration,  to  the  cry  of  despair,  which  means  in- 
sanity or  death,  if  a wise  word  of  counsel  or  a helping  hand 
does  not  stay  it,  what  a gamut  of  human  utterances ! Each  in- 
dividual writer  feels  as  if  he  or  she  were  the  only  one  to  be 
listened  to  and  succored,  little  remembering  that  merely  to  ac- 
knowledge the  receipt  of  the  letters  that  come  by  every  post 
is  no  small  part  of  every  day’s  occupation  to  a good-natured 
and  moderately  popular  writer. 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  71 


report  such  remarks  as  I happen  to  have  made  at  our 
breakfast-table.  Their  character  will  depend  on  many 
accidents,  — a good  deal  on  the  particular  persons  in 
the  company  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  It  so 
happens  that  those  which  follow  were  mainly  in- 
tended for  the  divinity-student  and  the  schoolmistress ; 
though  others  whom  I need  not  mention  saw  fit  to 
interfere,  with  more  or  less  propriety,  in  the  conver- 
sation. This  is  one  of  my  privileges  as  a talker ; and 
of  course,  when  I was  not  talking  for  our  whole  com- 
pany I don’t  expect  all  the  readers  of  this  periodical 
to  be  interested  in  my  notes  of  what  was  said.  Still, 
I think  there  may  be  a few  that  will  rather  like  this 
vein, — possibly  prefer  it  to  a livelier  one,  — serious 
young  men,  and  young  women  generally,  in  life’s 
roseate  parenthesis  from years  of  age  to in- 

clusive. 

Another  privilege  of  talking  is  to  misquote.  — Of 
course  it  was  n’t  Proserpina  that  actually  cut  the  yel- 
low hair,  — but  Iris.  (As  I have  since  told  you)  it 
was  the  former  lady’s  regular  business,  but  Dido  had 
used  herself  ungenteelly,  and  Madame  d’Enfer  stood 
firm  on  the  point  of  etiquette.  So  the  bathycolpian 
Here,  — J uno,  in  Latin,  — sent  down  Iris  instead.  But 
I was  mightily  pleased  to  see  that  one  of  the  gentle- 
men that  do  the  heavy  articles  for  the  celebrated 

Oceanic  Miscellany  ” misquoted  Campbell’s  line 
without  any  excuse.  ^‘Waft  us  home  the  message'"'^ 
of  course  it  ought  to  be.  Will  he  be  duly  grateful  for 
the  correction  ?] 

— The  more  we  study  the  body  and  the  mind,  the 
more  we  find  both  to  be  governed,  not  but  accord- 
ing to  laws,  such  as  we  observe  in  the  larger  universe. 
— You  think  you  know  all  about  walking.^  — don’t 


72  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

you,  now?  Well,  how  do  you  suppose  your  lower 
limbs  are  held  to  your  body  ? They  are  sucked  up  by 
two  cupping  vessels  cotyloid  ” — cup-like  — cavi- 
ties), and  held  there  as  long  as  you  live,  and  longer. 
At  any  rate,  you  think  you  move  them  backward  and 
forward  at  such  a rate  as  your  will  determines,  don’t 
you?  On  the  contrary,  they  swing  just  as  any  other 
pendulums  swings  at  a fixed  rate,  determined  by  their 
length.  You  can  alter  this  by  muscular  power,  as  you 
can  take  hold  of  the  pendulum  of  a clock  and  make  it 
move  faster  or  slower ; but  your  ordinary  gait  is  timed 
by  the  same  mechanism  as  the  movements  of  the  solar 
system. 

[My  friend,  the  Professor,  told  me  all  this,  refer- 
ring me  to  certain  German  physiologists  by  the  name 
of  Weber  for  proof  of  the  facts,  which,  however,  he 
said  he  had  often  verified.  I appropriated  it  to  my 
own  use  ; what  can  one  do  better  than  this,  when  one 
has  a friend  that  tells  him  anything  worth  remember- 
ing ? 

The  Professor  seems  to  think  that  man  and  the 
general  powers  of  the  universe  are  in  partnership. 
Some  one  was  saying  that  it  had  cost  nearly  half  a 
million  to  move  the  Leviathan  " only  so  far  as  they 
had  got  it  already.  — Why,  — said  the  Professor,  — 
they  might  have  hired  an  earthquake  for  less 
money !] 

J ust  as  we  find  a mathematical  rule  at  the  bottom 

“ ‘‘  The  Leviathan  ’’  was  the  name  first  applied  to  the  huge 
vessel  afterwards  known  as  the  Great  Eastern.”  The  trouble 
which  rose  from  its  being  built  out  of  its  “ native  element,”  as 
the  newspapers  call  it,  was  like  the  puzzle  of  the  Primrose 
household  after  the  great  family  picture,  with  as  many  sheep 
as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  nothing,”  was  finished. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  73 

of  many  of  the  bodily  movements,  just  so  thought  may 
be  supposed  to  have  its  regular  cycles.  Such  or  such 
a thought  comes  round  periodically,  in  its  turn.  Acci- 
dental suggestions,  however,  so  far  interfere  with  the 
regidar  cycles,  that  we  may  find  them  practically  be- 
yond our  power  of  recognition.  Take  all  this  for  what 
it  is  worth,  but  at  any  rate  you  will  agree  that  there 
are  certain  particular  thoughts  which  do  not  come  up 
once  a day,  nor  once  a week,  but  that  a year  would 
hardly  go  round  without  your  having  them  pass 
through  your  mind.  Here  is  one  which  comes  up  at 
intervals  in  this  way.  Some  one  speaks  of  it,  and  there 
is  an  instant  and  eager  smile  of  assent  in  the  listener 
or  listeners.  Yes,  indeed ; they  have  often  been  struck 
by  it. 

All  at  once  a conviction  flashes  through  us  that 
we  have  been  in  the  same  precise  circumstances  as  at 
the  present  instant^  once  or  many  times  before, 

O,  dear,  yes  ! — said  one  of  the  company,  — every- 
body has  had  that  feeling. 

The  landlady  did  n’t  know  anything  about  such  no- 
tions ; it  was  an  idee  in  folks’  heads,  she  expected. 

The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a hesitating  sort  of  way, 
that  she  knew  the  feeling  well,  and  did  n’t  like  to  ex- 
perience it ; it  made  her  think  she  was  a ghost,  some- 
times. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  said  he  knew 
all  about  it ; he  had  just  lighted  a cheroot  the  other 
day,  when  a tremendous  conviction  all  at  once  came 
over  him  that  he  had  done  just  that  same  thing  ever 
so  many  times  before.  I looked  severely  at  him,  and 
his  countenance  immediately  fell  — on  the  side  to- 
ward me  ; I cannot  answer  for  the  other,  for  he  can 
wink  and  laugh  with  either  half  of  his  face  without 
the  other  half’s  knowing  it. 


74  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— I have  noticed  — I went  on  to  say  — the  follow- 
ing circumstances  connected  with  these  sudden  impres- 
sions. First,  that  the  condition  which  seems  to  be  the 
duplicate  of  a former  one  is  often  very  trivial,  — one 
that  might  have  presented  itself  a hundred  times. 
Secondly,  that  the  impression  is  very  evanescent,  and 
that  it  is  rarely,  if  ever,  recalled  by  any  voluntary  ef- 
fort, at  least  after  any  time  has  elapsed.  Thirdly, 
that  there  is  a disinclination  to  record  the  circum- 
stances, and  a sense  of  incapacity  to  reproduce  the 
state  of  mind  in  words.  Fourthly,  I have  often  felt 
that  the  duplicate  condition  had  not  only  occurred 
once  before,  but  that  it  was  familiar  and,  as  it  seemed, 
habitual.  Lastly,  I have  had  the  same  convictions  in 
my  dreams. 

How  do  I account  for  it  ? — Why,  there  are  several 
ways  that  I can  mention,  and  you  may  take  your 
choice.  The  first  is  that  which  the  young  lady  hinted 
at ; — that  these  flashes  are  sudden  recollections  of  a 
previous  existence.  I don’t  believe  that ; for  I re- 
member a poor  student  1 used  to  know  told  me  he  had 
such  a conviction  one  day  when  he  was  blacking  his 
boots,  and  I can’t  think  he  had  ever  lived  in  another 
world  where  they  use  Day  and  Martin. 

Some  think  that  Dr.  Wigan’s  doctrine  of  the  brain’s 
being  a double  organ,  its  hemispheres  working  to- 
gether like  the  two  eyes,  accounts  for  it.  One  of  the 
hemispheres  hangs  fire,  they  suppose,  and  the  small 
interval  between  the  perceptions  of  the  nimble  and 
the  sluggish  half  seems  an  indefinitely  long  period, 
and  therefore  the  second  perception  appears  to  be  the 
copy  of  another,  ever  so  old.  But  even  allowing  the 
centre  of  perception  to  be  double,  I can  see  no  good 
reason  for  supposing  this  indefinite  lengthening  of  the 


Rev.  E.^l^oia  jiaird 
tor. 

University  Place  Christian: 

/‘Be  Glad  You’re  a Protestant’^ 
will  Be  the  sermon  topic  of  Rev. 
W.  J,  Jarman  at  the  8:30  a.m. 
service  and  “What  Protestantism 
Is,  and  Isn’t’*  will  be  his  topic  at 
the  10:45  a.m.  service.  Chi  Rho, 
Junior  high  school  group,  will 


Fine  Watch  Repairing 


H.O.  NORMAN 

REqi^TEREp  JEWEL jER^A.G^S 
ACROSS  FROM  IN^ 

/ CHAMPAIGN/  ILLINOIS  ; : 


H|toso  a stern  challei^r* 

Then  he  said  he  is  going  to  stay 
on  the  job  as  long  as  Eisenhower 
wants  him  to. 


NEEDS  STAND-IN 

Idyllwild,  Calif.,  Oct.  29  (AP) 

As  a stuntman,  Robert  Hoy, 
25,  worked  five  years  with  only 
the  occupational  bruises  of  that 
profession  of  hazards. 

Then  he  had  a chance  to  be  an 
actor  in  a film  now  under  produc- 
tion. He  reported  for  work.  Came 
his  first  scene  and  a pistol  explod- 
ed in  his  face.  Today  he's  recup- 
erating after  hospital  trea^ent* 


He  thought 
Htch  whis- 
^Kust  want- 
Hb  check. 

W shouldn't 
I because  I 
yedr  Shu- 
H H.  Drae- 
PRurn  Mon- 
ive  them  in- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  75 

time,  nor  any  analogy  that  bears  it  out.  It  seems  to 
me  most  likely  that  the  coincidence  of  circumstances 
is  very  partial,  but  that  we  take  this  partial  resem- 
blance for  identity,  as  we  occasionally  do  resemblances 
of  persons.  A momentary  posture  of  circumstances 
is  so  far  like  some  preceding  one  that  we  accept  it  as 
exactly  the  same,  just  as  we  accost  a stranger  occa- 
sionally, mistaking  him  for  a friend.  The  apparent 
similarity  may  be  owing  perhaps,  quite  as  much  to  the 
mental  state  at  the  time,  as  to  the  outward  circum- 
stances. 

— Here  is  another  of  these  curiously  recurring  re- 
marks. I have  said  it,  and  heard  it  many  times,  and 
occasionally  met  with  something  like  it  in  books, — 
somewhere  in  Bulwer’s  novels,  I think,  and  in  one  of 
the  works  of  Mr.  Olmsted,  I know. 

Memory^  imagination^  old  sentiments  and  associa- 
tions^ are  more  readily  reached  through  the  sense  of 
SMELL  than  hy  almost  any  other  channel. 

Of  course  the  particular  odors  which  act  upon  each 
person’s  susceptibilities  differ.  — 0,  yes ! I will  tell 
you  some  of  mine.  The  smell  of  phosphorus  is  one 
of  them.  During  a year  or  two  of  adolescence  I used 
to  be  dabbling  in  chemistry  a good  deal,  and  as  about 
that  time  I had  my  little  aspirations  and  passions  like 
another,  some  of  these  things  got  mixed  up  with  each 
other : orange-colored  fumes  of  nitrous  acid,  and  vis- 
ions as  bright  and  transient ; reddening  litmus-paper, 
and  blushing  cheeks  ; — eheu  ! 

“ Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt,’’ 

but  there  is  no  reagent  that  will  redden  the  faded 

roses  of  eighteen  hundred  and spare  them ! But, 

as  I was  saying,  phosphorus  fires  this  train  of  associa- 


76  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BEE  AKF  A ST-TABLE. 

tions  in  an  instant;  its  luminous  vapors  with  their 
penetrating  odor  throw  me  into  a trance ; it  comes  to 
me  in  a double  sense  “ trailing  clouds  of  glory.”  Only 
the  confounded  Vienna  matches,  ohne  phosphorge- 
Tuch^  have  worn  my  sensibilities  a little. 

Then  there  is  the  marigold.  When  I was  of  small- 
est dimensions,  and  wont  to  ride  impacted  between 
the  knees  of  fond  parental  pair,  we  would  sometimes 
cross  the  bridge  to  the  next  village-town  and  stop  op- 
posite a low,  brown,  gambrel-roofed  ” cottage.  Out 
of  it  would  come  one  Sally,  sister  of  its  swarthy  ten- 
ant, swarthy  herself,  shady-lipped,  sad-voiced,  and, 
bending  over  her  flower-bed,  would  gather  a posy,” 
as  she  called  it,  for  the  little  boy.  Sally  lies  in  the 
churchyard  with  a slab  of  blue  slate  at  her  head, 
lichen-crusted,  and  leaning  a little  within  the  last  few 
years.  Cottage,  garden-beds,  posies,  grenadier-like 
rows  of  seedling  onions,  — stateliest  of  vegetables,  — 
all  are  gone,  but  the  breath  of  a marigold  brings  them 
all  back  to  me. 

Perhaps  the  herb  everlasting,^  the  fragrant  immor- 
telle of  our  autumn  fields,  has  the  most  suggestive 
odor  to  me  of  all  those  that  set  me  dreaming.  I can 
hardly  describe  the  strange  thoughts  and  emotions 
which  come  to  me  as  I inhale  the  aroma  of  its  pale, 
dry,  rustling  flowers.  A something  it  has  of  sepulchral 
spicery,  as  if  it  had  been  brought  from  the  core  of 
some  great  pyramid,  where  it  had  lain  on  the  breast 
of  a mummied  Pharaoh.  Something,  too,  of  immor- 
tality in  the  sad,  faint  sweetness  lingering  so  long  in 
its  lifeless  petals.  Yet  this  does  not  tell  why  it  fills 
my  eyes  with  tears  and  carries  me  in  blissful  thought 
to  the  banks  of  asphodel  that  border  the  Kiver  of 
Life. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  77 

— I should  not  have  talked  so  much  about  these 
personal  susceptibilities,  if  I had  not  a remark  to 
make  about  them  which  I believe  is  a new  one.  It  is 
this.  There  may  be  a physical  reason  for  the  strange 
connection  between  the  sense  of  smell  and  the  mind. 
The  olfactory  nerve,  — so  my  friend,  the  Professor, 
tells  me,  — is  the  only  one  directly  connected  with  the 
hemispheres  of  the  brain,  the  parts  in  which,  as  we 
have  every  reason  to  believe,  the  intellectual  processes 
are  performed.  To  speak  more  truly,  the  olfactory 
nerve  ” is  not  a nerve  at  all,  he  says,  but  a part  of 
the  brain,  in  intimate  connection  with  its  anterior 
lobes.  Whether  this  anatomical  arrangement  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  facts  I have  mentioned,  I will  not 
decide,  but  it  is  curious  enough  to  be  worth  remem- 
bering. Contrast  the  sense  of  taste,  as  a source  of 
suggestive  impressions,  with  that  of  smell.  Now  the 
Professor  assures  me  that  you  will  find  the  nerve  of 
taste  has  no  immediate  connection  with  the  brain 
proper,  but  only  with  the  prolongation  of  the  spinal 
cord. 

[The  old  gentleman  opposite  did  not  pay  much  at- 
tention, I think,  to  this  hypothesis  of  mine.  But 
while  I was  speaking  about  the  sense  of  smell  he 
nestled  about  in  his  seat,  and  presently  succeeded  in 
getting  out  a large  red  bandanna  handkerchief.  Then 
he  lurched  a little  to  the  other  side,  and  after  much 
tribulation  at  last  extricated  an  ample  round  snuff- 
box. I looked  as  he  opened  it  and  felt  for  the  wonted 
pugil.  Moist  rappee,  and  a Tonka-bean  lying  therein. 
I made  the  manual  sign  understood  of  all  mankind 
that  use  the  precious  dust,  and  presently  my  brain, 
too,  responded  to  the  long  unused  stimulus.  — O boys, 
— that  were,  — actual  papas  and  possible  grandpapas, 


78  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— some  of  you  with  crowns  like  billiard-balls,  — some 
in  locks  of  sable  silvered,  and  some  of  silver  sabled, 

— do  you  remember,  as  you  doze  over  this,  those 
after-dinners  at  the  Trois  Freres,  when  the  Scotch- 
plaided  snuff-box  went  round,  and  the  dry  Lundy- 
Foot  tickled  its  way  along  into  our  happy  sensoria? 
Then  it  was  that  the  Chambertin  or  the  Clos  Vougeot 
came  in,  slumbering  in  its  straw  cradle.  And  one 
among  you,  — do  you  remember  how  he  would  sit 
dreaming  over  his  Burgundy,  and  tinkle  his  fork 
against  the  sides  of  the  bubble-like  glass,  saying  that 
he  was  hearing  the  cow-bells  as  he  used  to  hear  them, 
when  the  deep-breathing  kine  came  home  at  twilight 
from  the  huckleberry  pasture,  in  the  old  home  a 
thousand  leagues  towards  the  sunset  ?] 

Ah  me!  what  strains  and  strophes  of  unwritten 
verse  pulsate  through  my  soul  when  I open  a certain 
closet  in  the  ancient  house  where  I was  born  I On  its 
shelves  used  to  lie  bundles  of  sweet-marjoram  and 
pennyroyal  and  lavender  and  mint  and  catnip ; there 
apples  were  stored  until  their  seeds  should  grow  black, 
which  happy  period  there  were  sharp  little  milk-teeth 
always  ready  to  anticipate ; there  peaches  lay  in  the 
dark,  thinking  of  the  sunshine  they  had  lost,  until, 
like  the  hearts  of  saints  who  dream  of  heaven  in  their 
sorrow,  they  grew  fragrant  as  the  breath  of  angels. 
The  odorous  echo  of  a score  of  dead  summers  lingers 
yet  in  those  dim  recesses. 

— Do  I remember  Byron’s  line  about  “ striking  the 
electric  chain  ” ? — To  be  sure  I do.  I sometimes 
think  the  less  the  hint  that  stirs  the  automatic  ma- 
chinery of  association,  the  more  easily  this  moves  us. 
What  can  be  more  trivial  than  that  old  story  of  open- 
ing the  folio  Shakspeare  that  used  to  lie  in  some  an- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  79 

cient  English  hall  and  finding  the  flakes  of  Christmas 
pastry  between  its  leaves,  shut  up  in  them  perhaps  a 
hundred  years  ago  ? And,  lo  ! as  one  looks  on  these 
poor  relics  of  a bygone  generation,  the  universe  changes 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ; old  George  the  Second  is 
back  again,  and  the  elder  Pitt  is  coming  into  power, 
and  General  Wolfe  is  a fine,  promising  young  man, 
and  over  the  Channel  they  are  pulling  the  Sieur  Da- 
miens to  pieces  with  wild  horses,  and  across  the  Atlan- 
tic the  Indians  are  tomahawking  Hirams  and  Jona- 
thans and  Jonases  at  Fort  William  Henry;  all  the 
dead  people  who  have  been  in  the  dust  so  long  — 
even  to  the  stout-armed  cook  that  made  the  pastry 
— are  alive  again ; the  planet  unwinds  a hundred  of 
its  luminous  coils,  and  the  precession  of  the  equinoxes 
is  retraced  on  the  dial  of  heaven  ! And  all  this  for  a 
bit  of  pie-crust ! 

— I will  thank  you  for  that  pie,  — said  the  pro- 
voking young  fellow  whom  I have  named  repeatedly* 
He  looked  at  it  for  a moment,  and  put  his  hands  to 
his  eyes  as  if  moved.  — I was  thinking,  — he  said  in- 
distinctly — 

— How  ? What  is ’t  ? — said  our  landlady. 

— I was  thinking  — said  he  — who  was  king  of 
England  when  this  old  pie  was  baked,  — and  it  made 
me  feel  bad  to  think  how  long  he  must  have  been 
dead. 

[Our  landlady  is  a decent  body,  poor,  and  a widow 
of  course ; cela  va  sans  dire.  She  told  me  her  story 
once ; it  was  as  if  a grain  of  corn  that  had  been 
ground  and  bolted  had  tried  to  individualize  itself  by 
a special  narrative.  There  was  the  wooing  and  the 
wedding,  — the  start  in  life,  — the  disappointment,  — 
the  children  she  had  buried,  — the  struggle  against 


80  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

fate,  — the  dismantling  of  life,  first  of  its  small  lux- 
uries, and  then  of  its  comforts  — the  broken  spirits,  — 
the  altered  character  of  the  one  on  whom  she  leaned, 
— and  at  last  the  death  that  came  and  drew  the  black 
curtain  between  her  and  all  her  earthly  hopes. 

I never  laughed  at  my  landlady  after  she  had  told 
me  her  story,  but  I often  cried,  — not  those  pattering 
tears  that  run  off  the  eaves  upon  our  neighbors’ 
grounds,  the  stillicidium  of  self-conscious  sentiment, 
but  those  which  steal  noiselessly  through  their  con- 
duits until  they  reach  the  cisterns  lying  round  about 
the  heart ; those  tears  that  we  weep  inwardly  with  un- 
changing features ; — such  I did  shed  for  her  often 
when  the  imps  of  the  boarding-house  Inferno  tugged 
at  her  soul  with  their  red-hot  pincers.] 

Young  man,  — I said  — the  pasty  you  speak  lightly 
of  is  not  old,  but  courtesy  to  those  who  labor  to  serve 
us,  especially  if  they  are  of  the  weaker  sex,  is  very 
old,  and  yet  well  worth  retaining.  May  I recommend 
to  you  the  following  caution,  as  a guide,  whenever  you 
are  dealing  with  a woman,  or  an  artist,  or  a poet,  — if 
you  are  handling  an  editor  or  politician,  it  is  superflu- 
ous advice.  I take  it  from  the  back  of  one  of  those 
little  French  toys  which  contain  pasteboard  figures 
moved  by  a small  running  stream  of  fine  sand ; Ben- 
jamin Franklin  will  translate  it  for  you : Quoiqu"- 

elle  soit  tres  solidement  mont6e^  il  faut  ne  pas  bru- 
TALISER  la  maokiner  — I will  thank  you  for  the  pie, 
if  you  please. 

[I  took  more  of  it  than  was  good  for  me,  — as  much 
as  85°,  I should  think,  — and  had  an  indigestion  in 
consequence.  While  I was  suffering  from  it,  I wrote 
some  sadly  desponding  poems,  and  a theological  essay 
which  took  a very  melancholy  view  of  creation.  When 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  81 

I got  better  I labelled  them  all  Pie-crust,”  and  laid 
them  by  as  scarecrows  and  solemn  warnings.  I have 
a number  of  books  on  my  shelves  which  I should  like 
to  label  with  some  such  title  ; but,  as  they  have  great 
names  on  their  title-pages,  — Doctors  of  Divinity, 
some  of  them,  — it  would  n’t  do.] 

— My  friend,  the  Professor,  whom  I have  men- 
tioned to  you  once  or  twice,  told  me  yesterday  that 
somebody  had  been  abusing  him  in  some  of  the  jour- 
nals of  his  calling.  I told  him  that  I did  n’t  doubt  he 
deserved  it ; that  I hoped  he  did  deserve  a little  abuse 
occasionally,  and  would  for  a number  of  years  to  come ; 
that  nobody  could  do  anything  to  make  his  neighbors 
wiser  or  better  without  being  liable  to  abuse  for  it ; 
especially  that  people  hated  to  have  their  little  mis- 
takes made  fun  of,  and  perhaps  he  had  been  doing 
something  of  the  kind.  — The  Professor  smiled.  — 
Now,  said  I,  hear  what  I am  going  to  say.  It  will  not 
take  many  years  to  bring  you  to  the  period  of  life 
when  men,  at  least  the  majority  of  writing  and  talk- 
ing men,  do  nothing  but  praise.  Men,  like  peaches 
and  pears,  grow  sweet  a little  while  before  they  begin 
to  decay.  I don’t  know  what  it  is,  — whether  a spon- 
taneous change,  mental  or  bodily,  or  whether  it  is 
thorough  experience  of  the  thanklessness  of  critical 
honesty,  — but  it  is  a fact,  that  most  writers,  except 
sour  and  unsuccessful  ones,  get  tired  of  finding  fault 
at  about  the  time  when  they  are  beginning  to  grow 
old.  As  a general  thing,  I would  not  give  a great 
deal  for  the  fair  words  of  a critic,  if  he  is  himself  an 
author,  over  fifty  years  of  age.  At  thirty  we  are  all 
trying  to  cut  our  names  in  big  letters  upon  the  walls  of 
this  tenement  of  life ; twenty  years  later  we  have 
carved  it,  or  shut  up  our  jack-knives.  Then  we  are 


82  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


ready  to  help  others,  and  more  anxious  not  to  hinder 
any,  because  nobody’s  elbows  are  in  our  way.  So  I 
am  glad  you  have  a little  life  left;  you  will  be  sac- 
charine enough  in  a few  years. 

— Some  of  the  softening  effects  of  advancing  age 
have  struck  me  very  much  in  what  I have  heard  or 
seen  here  and  elsewhere.  I just  now  spoke  of  the 
sweetening  process  that  authors  undergo.  Do  you 
know  that  in  the  gradual  passage  from  maturity  to 
helplessness  the  harshest  characters  sometimes  have  a 
period  in  which  they  are  gentle  and  placid  as  young 
children  ? I have  heard  it  said,  but  I cannot  be  sponsor 
for  its  truth,  that  the  famous  chieftain,  Lochiel,  was 
rocked  in  a cradle  like  a baby,  in  his  old  age.  An 
old  man,  whose  studies  had  been  of  the  severest  schol- 
astic kind,  used  to  love  to  hear  little  nursery-stories 
read  over  and  over  to  him.  One  who  saw  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  in  his  last  years  describes  him  as  very 
gentle  in  his  aspect  and  demeanor.  I remember  a 
person  of  singularly  stern  and  lofty  bearing  who  be- 
came remarkably  gracious  and  easy  in  all  his  ways  in 
the  later  period  of  his  life. 

And  that  leads  me  to  say  that  men  often  remind  me 
of  pears  in  their  way  of  coming  to  maturity.  Some 
are  ripe  at  twenty,  like  hiunan  Jargonelles,  and  must 
be  made  the  most  of,  for  their  day  is  soon  over.  Some 
come  into  their  perfect  condition  late,  like  the  autumn 
kinds,  and  they  last  better  than  the  summer  fruit. 
And  some,  that,  like  the  Winter-Nelis,  have  been  hard 
and  uninviting  until  all  the  rest  have  had  their  season, 
get  their  glow  and  perfume  long  after  the  frost  and 
snow  have  done  their  worst  with  the  orchards.  Be- 
ware of  rash  criticisms  ; the  rough  and  astringent  fruit 
you  condemn  may  be  an  autumn  or  a winter  pear,  and 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  83 

that  which  you  picked  up  beneath  the  same  bough  in 
August  may  have  been  only  its  worm-eaten  windfalls. 
Milton  was  a Saint-Germain  with  a graft  of  the  rose- 
ate Early-Catherine.  Rich,  juicy,  lively,  fragrant, 
russet  skinned  old  Chaucer  was  an  Easter-Beurre  ; 
the  buds  of  a new  summer  were  swelling  when  he 
ripened. 

— There  is  no  power  I envy  so  much,  — said  the 
divinity-student,  — as  that  of  seeing  analogies  and 
making  comparisons.  I don’t  understand  how  it  is 
that  some  minds  are  continually  coupling  thoughts  or 
objects  that  seem  not  in  the  least  related  to  each  other, 
until  all  at  once  they  are  put  in  a certain  light  and 
you  wonder  that  you  did  not  always  see  that  they  were 
as  like  as  a pair  of  twins.  It  appears  to  me  a sort  of 
miraculous  gift. 

[He  is  a rather  nice  young  man,  and  I think  has 
an  appreciation  of  the  higher  mental  qualities  re- 
markable for  one  of  his  years  and  training.  I try  his 
head  occasionally  as  housewives  try  eggs,  — give  it  an 
intellectual  shake  and  hold  it  up  to  the  light,  so  to 
speak,  to  see  if  it  has  life  in  it,  actual  or  potential,  or 
only  contains  lifeless  albumen.] 

You  call  it  miraculous^  — I replied,  — tossing  the 
expression  with  my  facial  eminence,  a little  smartly,  I 
fear.  — Two  men  are  walking  by  the  polyphloesboean 
ocean,  one  of  them  having  a small  tin  cup  with  which 
he  can  scoop  up  a gill  of  sea-water  when  he  will,  and 
the  other  nothing  but  his  hands,  which  will  hardly 
hold  water  at  all,  — and  you  call  the  tin  cup  a mirac- 
ulous possession ! It  is  the  ocean  that  is  the  miracle, 
my  infant  apostle  ! Nothing  is  clearer  than  that  all 
things  are  in  all  things,  and  that  just  according  to 
the  intensity  and  extension  of  our  mental  being  we 


84  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

shall  see  the  many  in  the  one  and  the  one  in  the  many. 
Did  Sir  Isaac  think  what  he  was  saying  when  he  made 
Ms  speech  about  the  ocean,  — the  child  and  the  peb- 
bles, you  know?  Did  he  mean  to  speak  slightingly  of 
a pebble  ? Of  a spherical  solid  which  stood  sentinel 
over  its  compartment  of  space  before  the  stone  that  be- 
came the  pyramids  had  grown  solid,  and  has  watched 
it  until  now ! A body  which  knows  all  the  currents  of 
force  that  traverse  the  globe ; which  holds  by  invisible 
threads  to  the  ring  of  Saturn  and  the  belt  of  Orion  ! 
A body  from  the  contemplation  of  which  an  archangel 
could  infer  the  entire  inorganic  universe  as  the  sim- 
plest of  corollaries  ! A throne  of  the  all-pervading 
Deity,  who  has  guided  its  every  atom  since  the  rosary 
of  heaven  was  strung  with  beaded  stars  ! 

So,  — to  return  to  our  walk  by  the  ocean,  — if  all 
that  poetry  has  dreamed,  all  that  insanity  has  raved, 
all  that  maddening  narcotics  have  driven  through  the 
brains  of  men,  or  smothered  passion  nursed  in  the 
fancies  of  women,  — if  the  dreams  of  colleges  and 
convents  and  boarding-schools,  — if  every  human  feel- 
ing that  sighs,  or  smiles,  or  curses,  or  shrieks,  or 
groans,  should  bring  all  their  innumerable  images, 
such  as  come  with  every  hurried  heart-beat,  — the 
epic  which  held  them  all,  though  its  letters  filled  the 
zodiac,  would  be  but  a cupful  from  the  infinite  ocean 
of  similitudes  and  analogies  that  rolls  through  the  uni- 
verse. 

[The  divinity-student  honored  himself  by  the  way 
in  which  he  received  this.  He  did  not  swallow  it  at 
once,  neither  did  he  reject  it ; but  he  took  it  as  a 
pickerel  takes  the  bait,  and  carried  it  off  with  him  to 
his  hole  (in  the  fourth  story)  to  deal  with  at  his 
leisure.] 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  85 

— Here  is  another  remark  made  for  his  especial 
benefit.  — There  is  a natural  tendency  in  many  per- 
sons to  run  their  adjectives  together  in  triads^  as  I 
have  heard  them  called,  — thus : He  was  honorable, 
courteous,  and  brave  ; she  was  graceful,  pleasing,  and 
virtuous.  Dr.  Johnson  is  famous  for  this;  I think  it 
was  Bulwer  who  said  you  could  separate  a paper  in 
the  Eambler  ” into  three  distinct  essays.  Many  of 
our  writers  show  the  same  tendency,  — my  friend,  the 
Professor,  especially.  Some  think  it  is  in  humble  im- 
itation of  Johnson,  — some  that  it  is  for  the  sake  of 
the  stately  sound  only.  I don’t  think  they  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it.  It  is,  I suspect,  an  instinctive  and  in- 
voluntary effort  of  the  mind  to  present  a thought  or 
image  with  the  three  dimensions  which  belong  to  every 
solid,  — an  unconscious  handling  of  an  idea  as  if  it 
had  length,  breadth,  and  thickness.  It  is  a great  deal 
easier  to  say  this  than  to  prove  it,  and  a great  deal 
easier  to  dispute  it  than  to  disprove  it.  But  mind 
this : the  more  we  observe  and  study,  the  wider  we 
find  the  range  of  the  automatic  and  instinctive  princi- 
ples in  body,  mind,  and  morals,  and  the  narrower  the 
limits  of  the  self-determining  conscious  movement. 

— I have  often  seen  piano-forte  players  and  singers 
make  such  strange  motions  over  their  instrmnents  or 
song-books  that  I wanted  to  laugh  at  them.  ‘‘  Where 
did  our  friends  pick  up  all  these  fine  ecstatic  airs  ? ” I 
would  say  to  myself.  Then  I would  remember  My 
Lady  in  “Marriage  a la  Mode,”  and  amuse  myself 
with  thinking  how  affectation  was  the  same  thing  in 
Hogarth’s  time  and  in  our  own.  But  one  day  I bought 
me  a Canary-bird  and  hung  him  up  in  a cage  at  my 
window.  By-and-by  he  found  himself  at  home,  and 
began  to  pipe  his  Httle  tunes ; and  there  he  was,  sure 


86  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

enough,  swimming  and  waving  about,  with  all  the 
droopings  and  liftings  and  languishing  side-turnings 
of  the  head  that  I had  laughed  at.  And  now  I should 
like  to  ask,  W ho  taught  him  all  this  ? - — and  me, 
through  him,  that  the  foolish  head  was  not  the  one 
swinging  itself  from  side  to  side  and  bowing  and  nod- 
ding over  the  music,  but  that  other  which  was  passing 
its  shallow  and  self-satisfied  judgment  on  a creature 
made  of  finer  clay  than  the  frame  which  carried  that 
same  head  upon  its  shoulders  ? 

— Do  you  want  an  image  of  the  human  will  or  the 
self-determining  principle,  as  compared  with  its  pre-ar- 
ranged and  impassable  restrictions  ? A drop  of  water, 
imprisoned  in  a crystal ; you  may  see  such  a one  in 
any  mineralogical  collection.  One  little  fluid  particle 
in  the  crystalline  prism  of  the  solid  universe ! 

— Weaken  moral  obligations?  — No,  not  weaken 
but  define  them.  When  I preach  that  sermon  I 
spoke  of  the  other  day,  I shall  have  to  lay  down  some 
principles  not  fully  recognized  in  some  of  your  text- 
books. 

I should  have  to  begin  with  one  most  formidable 
preliminary.  You  saw  an  article  the  other  day  in  one 
of  the  journals,  perhaps,  in  which  some  old  Doctor  or 
other  said  quietly  that  patients  were  very  apt  to  be 
fools  and  cowards.  But  a great  many  of  the  clergy- 
man’s patients  are  not  only  fools  and  cowards,  but  also 
liars. 

[Immense  sensation  at  the  table.  — Sudden  retire- 
ment of  the  angular  female  in  oxydated  bombazine. 
Movement  of  adhesion  — as  they  say  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  — on  the  part  of  the  young  fellow  they 
call  John.  Falling  of  the  old-gentleman-opposite’s 
lower  jaw  — (gravitation  is  beginning  to  get  the  bet* 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  87 

ter  of  him.)  Our  landlady  to  Benjamin  Franklin, 
briskly,  — Go  to  school  right  off,  there ’s  a good  boy ! 
Schoolmistress  curious,  — takes  a quick  glance  at  di- 
vinity-student. Divinity-student  slightly  flushed  ; 
draws  his  shoulders  back  a little,  as  if  a big  false- 
hood,— or  truth, — had  hit  him  in  the  forehead.  My- 
self calm.] 

— I should  not  make  such  a speech  as  that,  you 
know,  without  having  pretty  substantial  indorsers  to 
fall  back  upon,  in  case  my  credit  should  be  disputed. 
Will  you  run  up-stairs,  Benjamin  Franklin  (for  B. 
F.  had  not  gone  right  off,  of  course),  and  bring  down 
a small  volume  from  the  left  upper  corner  of  the  right- 
hand  shelves  ? 

[Look  at  the  precious  little  black,  ribbed  backed, 
clean-typed,  vellum-papered  32mo.  Desiderii  Eras- 
Mi  CoLLOQUiA.  Amstelodami.  Typis  Ludovici  El- 
zevirii.  1650.”  Various  names  written  on  title-page. 
Most  conspicuous  this  : Gul.  Cookeson,  E.  Coll.  Omn. 
Anim.  1725.  Oxon. 

— O William  Cookeson,  of  All-Souls  College,  Ox- 
ford, — then  writing  as  I now  write,  — now  in  the 
dust,  where  I shall  lie,  — is  this  line  all  that  remains 
to  thee  of  earthly  remembrance?  Thy  name  is  at 
least  once  more  spoken  by  living  men ; — is  it  a pleas- 
ure to  thee?  Thou  shalt  share  with  me  my  little 
draught  of  immortality,  — its  week,  its  month,  its 
year,  — whatever  it  may  be,  — and  then  we  will  go 
together  into  the  solemn  archives  of  Oblivion’s  Uncat- 
alogued Library!] 

— If  you  think  I have  used  rather  strong  language, 
I shall  have  to  read  something  to  you  out  of  the  book 
of  this  keen  and  witty  scholar,  — the  great  Erasmus, 
— who  laid  the  egg  of  the  Reformation  which  Lu- 


88  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE, 

ther  hatched.”  Oh,  you  never  read  his  Naufragium^ 
or  Shipwreck,”  did  you?  Of  course  not;  for,  if  you 
had,  I don’t  think  you  would  have  given  me  credit,  — 
or  discredit,  — for  entire  originality  in  that  speech  of 
mine.  That  men  are  cowards  in  the  contemplation  of 
futurity  he  illustrates  by  the  extraordinary  antics  of 
many  on  board  the  sinking  vessel ; that  they  are  fools, 
by  their  praying  to  the  sea,  and  making  promises  to 
bits  of  wood  from  the  true  cross,  and  all  manner  of 
similar  nonsense  ; that  they  are  fools,  cowards,  and 
liars  all  at  once,  by  this  story : I will  put  it  into  rough 
English  for  you.  — ‘‘I  could  n’t  help  laughing  to  hear 
one  fellow  bawling  out,  so  that  he  might  be  sure  to  be 
heard,  a promise  to  Saint  Christopher  of  Paris,  — the 
monstrous  statue  in  the  great  church  there,  — that  he 
would  give  him  a wax  taper  as  big  as  himself.  ‘ Mind 
what  you  promise ! ’ said  an  acquaintance  who  stood 
near  him,  poking  him  with  his  elbow ; ‘ you  could  n’t 
pay  for  it,  if  you  sold  all  your  things  at  auction.’ 
‘ Hold  your  tongue,  you  donkey  ! ’ said  the  fellow,  — 
but  softly,  so  that  Saint  Christopher  should  not  hear 
him,  — ^ do  you  think  I ’m  in  earnest  ? If  I once 
get  my  foot  on  dry  ground,  catch  me  giving  him  so 
much  as  a tallow  candle ! ’ ” 

Now,  therefore,  remembering  that  those  who  have 
been  loudest  in  their  talk  about  the  great  subject  of 
which  we  were  speaking  have  not  necessarily  been 
wise,  brave,  and  true  men,  but,  on  the  contrary,  have 
very  often  been  wanting  in  one  or  two  or  all  of  the 
qualities  these  words  imply,  I should  expect  to  find  a 
good  many  doctrines  current  in  the  schools  which  I 
should  be  obliged  to  call  foolish,  cowardly,  and  false. 

— So  you  would  abuse  other  people’s  beliefs.  Sir, 
and  yet  not  tell  us  your  own  creed  ! — said  the  divin* 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  89 

ity-student,  coloring  up  with  a spirit  for  which  I liked 
him  all  the  better. 

— I have  a creed,  — I replied ; — none  better,  and 
none  shorter.  It  is  told  in  two  words,  — the  two  first 
of  the  Paternoster.  And  when  I say  these  words  I 
mean  them.  And  when  I compared  the  hiunan  will 
to  a drop  in  a crystal,  and  said  I meant  to  define 
moral  obligations,  and  not  weaken  them,  this  was 
what  I intended  to  express : that  the  fluent,  self-deter- 
mining power  of  hiunan  beings  is  a very  strictly  lim- 
ited agency  in  the  universe.  The  chief  planes  of  its 
enclosing  solid  are,  of  course,  organization,  education, 
condition.  Organization  may  reduce  the  power  of  the 
will  to  nothing,  as  in  some  idiots ; and  from  this  zero 
the  scale  mounts  upwards  by  slight  gradations.  Edu- 
cation is  only  second  to  nature.  Imagine  all  the  in- 
fants born  this  year  in  Boston  and  Timbuctoo  to 
change  places!  Condition  does  less,  but  ‘‘Give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches  ” was  the  prayer  of  Agur, 
and  with  good  reason.  If  there  is  any  improvement 
in  modern  theology,  it  is  in  getting  out  of  the  region 
of  pure  abstractions  and  taking  these  every-day  work- 
ing forces  into  account.  The  great  theological  ques- 
tion now  heaving  and  throbbing  in  the  minds  of 
Christian  men  is  this  : — 

No,  I won’t  talk  about  these  things  now.  My  re- 
marks might  be  repeated,  and  it  would  give  my 
friends  pain  to  see  with  what  personal  incivilities  I 
should  be  visited.  Besides,  what  business  has  a mere 
boarder  to  be  talking  about  such  things  at  a break- 
fast-table ? Let  him  make  puns.  To  be  sure,  he  was 
brought  up  among  the  Christian  fathers,  and  learned 
his  alphabet  out  of  a quarto  “ Concilium  Tridenti- 
num.”  He  has  also  heard  many  thousand  theological 


90  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

lectures  by  men  of  various  denominations  ; and  it  is 
not  at  all  to  the  credit  of  these  teachers,  if  he  is  not  fit 
by  this  time  to  express  an  opinion  on  theological  mat- 
ters. 

I know  well  enough  that  there  are  some  of  you  who 
had  a great  deal  rather  see  me  stand  on  my  head  than 
use  it  for  any  purpose  of  thought.  Does  not  my 
friend,  the  Professor,  receive  at  least  two  letters  a 

week,  requesting  him  to , 

— on  the  strength  of  some  youthful  antic  of  his,  which, 
no  doubt,  authorizes  the  intelligent  constituency  of 
autograph-hunters  to  address  him  as  a harlequin  ? 

— W ell,  I can’t  be  savage  with  you  for  wanting  to 
laugh,  and  I like  to  make  you  laugh  well  enough,  when 
I can.  But  then  observe  this : if  the  sense  of  the  ri- 
diculous is  one  side  of  an  impressible  nature,  it  is  very 
well ; but  if  that  is  all  there  is  in  a man,  he  had  bet- 
ter have  been  an  ape  at  once,  and  so  have  stood  at 
the  head  of  his  profession.  Laughter  and  tears  are 
meant  to  turn  the  wheels  of  the  same  machinery  of 
sensibility;  one  is  wind-power,  and  the  other  water- 
power ; that  is  all.  I have  often  heard  the  Professor 
talk  about  hysterics  as  being  Nature’s  cleverest  illus- 
tration of  the  reciprocal  convertibility  of  the  two 
states  of  which  these  acts  are  the  manifestations.  But 
you  may  see  it  every  day  in  children ; and  if  you  want 
to  choke  with  stifled  tears  at  sight  of  the  transition,  as 
it  shows  itself  in  older  years,  go  and  see  Mr.  Blake 
play  Jesse  Rural. 

It  is  a very  dangerous  thing  for  a literary  man  to 
indulge  his  love  for  the  ridiculous.  People  laugh  with 
him  just  so  long  as  he  amuses  them  ; but  if  he  at- 
tempts to  be  serious,  they  must  still  have  their  laugh, 
and  so  they  laugh  at  him.  There  is  in  addition,  how- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  91 

ever,  a deeper  reason  for  this  than  would  at  first  ap- 
pear. Do  you  know  that  you  feel  a little  superior  to 
every  man  who  makes  you  laugh,  whether  by  making 
faces  or  verses?  Are  you  aware  that  you  have  a 
pleasant  sense  of  patronizing  him,  when  you  conde- 
scend so  far  as  to  let  him  turn  somersets,  literal  or  lit- 
erary, for  your  royal  delight  ? Now  if  a man  can  only 
be  allowed  to  stand  on  a dais,  or  raised  platform,  and 
look  down  on  his  neighbor  who  is  exerting  his  talent 
for  him,  oh,  it  is  all  right ! — first-rate  performance  ! 
— and  all  the  rest  of  the  fine  phrases.  But  if  all  at 
once  the  performer  asks  the  gentleman  to  come  upon 
the  floor,  and,  stepping  upon  the  platform,  begins  to 
talk  down  at  him,  — ah,  that  was  n’t  in  the  programme ! 

I have  never  forgotten  what  happened  when  Syd- 
ney Smith  — who,  as  everybody  knows,  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  sensible  man,  and  a gentleman,  every  inch 
of  him  — ventured  to  preach  a sermon  on  the  Duties 
of  Royalty.  The  ‘‘  Quarterly,”  so  savage  and  tar- 
tarly,”  came  down  upon  him  in  the  most  contempt- 
uous style,  as  a joker  of  jokes,”  a diner-out  of  the 
first  water,”  in  one  of  his  own  phrases  ; sneering  at 
him,  insulting  him,  as  nothing  but  a toady  of  a court, 
sneaking  behind  the  anonymous,  would  ever  have  been 
mean  enough  to  do  to  a man  of  his  position  and 
genius,  or  to  any  decent  person  even.  — If  I were  giv- 
ing advice,  to  a young  fellow  of  talent,  with  two  or 
three  facets  to  his  mind,  I would  tell  him  by  all  means 
to  keep  his  wit  in  the  background  until  after  he  had 
made  a reputation  by  his  more  solid  qualities.  And 
so  to  an  actor : Hamlet  first,  and  Boh  Logie  after- 
wards, if  you  like ; but  don’t  think,  as  they  say  poor 
Liston  used  to,  that  people  will  be  ready  to  allow  that 
you  can  do  anything  great  with  MaehetBs  dagger 


92  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

after  flourishing  about  with  Paul  Pry^s  umbrella.  Do 
you  know,  too,  that  the  majority  of  men  look  upon  all 
who  challenge  their  attention,  — for  a while,  at  least, 
— as  beggars,  and  nuisances  ? They  always  try  to 
get  off  as  cheaply  as  they  can ; and  the  cheapest  of  all 
things  they  can  give  a literary  man  — pardon  the  for- 
lorn pleasantry ! — is  the  funny^one.  That  is  all 
very  well  so  far  as  it  goes,  but  satisfies  no  man,  and 
makes  a good  many  angry,  as  I told  you  on  a former 
occasion. 

— Oh,  indeed,  no  ! — I am  not  ashamed  to  make 
you  laugh,  occasionally.  I think  I could  read  you 
something  I have  in  my  desk  which  would  probably 
make  you  smile.  Perhaps  I will  read  it  one  of  these 
days,  if  you  are  patient  with  me  when  I am  senti- 
mental and  reflective  ; not  just  now.  The  ludicrous 
has  its  place  in  the  universe ; it  is  not  a human  in- 
vention, but  one  of  the  Divine  ideas,  illustrated  in  the 
practical  jokes  of  kittens  and  monkeys  long  before 
Aristophanes  or  Shakspeare.  How  curious  it  is  that 
we  always  consider  solemnity  and  the  absence  of  all 
gay  surprises  and  encounter  of  wits  as  essential  to  the 
idea  of  the  future  life  of  those  whom  we  thus  deprive 
of  half  their  faculties  and  then  call  hlessed ! There 
are  not  a few  who,  even  in  this  life,  seem  to  be  pre- 
paring themselves  for  that  smileless  eternity  to  which 
they  look  forward,  by  banishing  all  gayety  from  their 
hearts  and  all  joyousness  from  their  countenances.  I 
meet  one  such  in  the  street  not  unfrequently,  a person 
of  intelligence  and  education,  but  who  gives  me  (and 
all  that  he  passes)  such  a rayless  and  chilling  look  of 
recognition,  — something  as  if  he  were  one  of  Heaven’s 
assessors,  come  down  to  doom  ” every  acquaintance 
he  met,  — that  I have  sometimes  begun  to  sneeze  on 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  93 

the  spot,  and  gone  home  with  a violent  cold,  dating 
from  that  instant.  I don’t  doubt  he  would  cut  his 
kitten’s  tail  off,  if  he  caught  her  playing  with  it. 
Please  tell  me,  who  taught  her  to  play  with  it  ? 

No,  no  ! — give  me  a chance  to  talk  to  you,  my  fel- 
low-boarders, and  you  need  not  be  afraid  that  I shall 
have  any  scruples  about  entertaining  you,  if  I can  do 
it,  as  well  as  giving  you  some  of  my  serious  thoughts, 
and  perhaps  my  sadder  fancies.  I know  nothing  in 
English  or  any  other  literature  more  admirable  than 
that  sentiment  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  ‘‘  Every  man 

TRULY  LIVES,  SO  LONG  AS  HE  ACTS  HIS  NATURE,  OR 
SOME  WAY  MAKES  GOOD  THE  FACULTIES  OF  HIM- 
SELF.” 

I find  the  great  thing  in  this  world  is  not  so  much 
where  we  stand,  as  in  what  direction  we  are  moving : 
To  reach  the  port  of  heaven,  we  must  sail  sometimes 
with  the  wind  and  sometimes  against  it,  — but  we 
must  sail,  and  not  drift,  nor  lie  at  anchor.  There  is 
one  very  sad  thing  in  old  friendships,  to  every  mind 
which  is  really  moving  onward.  It  is  this  : that  one 
cannot  help  using  his  early  friends  as  the  seaman  uses 
the  log,  to  mark  his  progress.  Every  now  and  then 
we  throw  an  old  schoolmate  over  the  stern  with  a 
string  of  thought  tied  to  him,  and  look,  — I am  afraid 
with  a kind  of  luxurious  and  sanctimonious  compas- 
sion,— to  see  the  rate  at  which  the  string  reels  off, 
while  he  lies  there  bobbing  up  and  down,  poor  fellow ! 
and  we  are  dashing  along  with  the  white  foam  and 
bright  sparkle  at  our  bows  ; — the  ruffled  bosom  of 
prosperity  and  progress,  with  a sprig  of  diamonds 
stuck  in  it ! But  this  is  only  the  sentimental  side  of 
the  matter ; for  grow  we  must,  if  we  outgrow  all  that 
we  love. 


94  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Don’t  misunderstand  that  metaphor  of  heaving  the 
log,  I beg  you.  It  is  merely  a smart  way  of  saying 
that  we  cannot  avoid  measuring  our  rate  of  move- 
ment by  those  with  whom  we  have  long  been  in  the 
habit  of  comparing  ourselves ; and  when  they  once 
become  stationary,  we  can  get  our  reckoning  from 
them  with  painful  accuracy.  We  see  just  what  we 
were  when  they  were  our  peers,  and  can  strike  the 
balance  between  that  and  whatever  we  may  feel  our- 
selves to  be  now.  No  doubt  we  may  sometimes  be 
mistaken.  If  we  change  our  last  simile  to  that  very 
old  and  familiar  one  of  a fleet  leaving  the  harbor  and 
sailing  in  company  for  some  distant  region,  we  can 
get  what  we  want  out  of  it.  There  is  one  of  our  com- 
panions ; — her  streamers  were  torn  into  rags  before 
she  had  got  into  the  open  sea,  then  by  and  by  her 
sails  blew  out  of  the  ropes  one  after  another^  the  waves 
swept  her  deck,  and  as  night  came  on  we  left  her  a 
seeming  wreck,  as  we  flew  under  our  pyramid  of  can- 
vas. But  lo  ! at  dawn  she  is  still  in  sight,  — it  may 
be  in  advance  of  us.  Some  deep  ocean-current  has 
been  moving  her  on,  strong,  but  silent,  — yes,  stronger 
than  these  noisy  winds  that  puff  our  sails  until  they 
are  swollen  as  the  cheeks  of  jubilant  cherubim.  And 
when  at  last  the  black  steam-tug  with  the  skeleton 
arms,  which  comes  out  of  the  mist  sooner  or  later  and 
takes  us  all  in  tow,  grapples  her  and  goes  off  panting 
and  groaning  with  her,  it  is  to  that  harbor  where  all 
wrecks  are  refitted  and  where,  alas ! we,  towering  in 
our  pride,  may  never  come. 

So  you  will  not  think  I mean  to  speak  lightly  of  old 
friendships,  because  we  cannot  help  instituting  com- 
parisons between  our  present  and  former  selves  by  the 
aid  of  those  who  were  what  we  were,  but  are  not  what 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  95 

we  are.  Nothing  strikes  one  more,  in  the  race  of  life, 
than  to  see  how  many  give  out  in  the  first  half  of  the 
course.  ‘‘  Commencement  day  ” always  reminds  me 
of  the  start  for  the  “Derby,”  when  the  beautiful  high- 
bred three-year-olds  of  the  season  are  brought  up  for 
trial.  That  day  is  the  start,  and  life  is  the  race.  Here 
we  are  at  Cambridge,  and  a class  is  just  “ graduating.” 
Poor  Harry ! he  was  to  have  been  there  too,  but  he 
has  paid  forfeit ; step  out  here  into  the  grass  behind 
the  church  ; ah  ! there  it  is  : — 

“Hung  lapidem  posuerunt 
Soon  MCERENTES.’^ 

But  this  is  the  start,  and  here  they  are,  — coats  bright 
as  silk,  and  manes  as  smooth  as  eau  lustrale  can  make 
them.  Some  of  the  best  of  the  colts  are  pranced 
round,  a few  minutes  each,  to  show  their  paces.  What 
is  that  old  gentleman  crying  about  ? and  the  old  lady 
by  him,  and  the  three  girls,  what  are  they  all  covering 
their  eyes  for  ? Oh,  that  is  their  colt  which  has  just 
been  trotted  up  on  the  stage.  Do  they  really  think 
those  little  thin  legs  can  do  anything  in  such  a slash- 
ing sweepstakes  as  is  coming  off  in  these  next  forty 
years  ? Oh,  this  terrible  gift  of  second-sight  that 
comes  to  some  of  us  when  we  begin  to  look  through 
the  silvered  rings  of  the  arcus  senilis  ! 

Ten  years  gone.  First  turn  in  the  race.  A few 
broken  down  ; two  or  three  bolted.  Several  show  in 
advance  of  the  ruck.  Cassoch^  a black  colt,  seems  to 
be  ahead  of  the  rest ; those  black  colts  commonly  get 
the  start,  I have  noticed,  of  the  others,  in  the  first 
quarter.  Meteor  has  pulled  up. 

Twenty  years.  Second  corner  turned.  Cassoch 
has  dropped  from  the  front,  and  Judex^  an  iron-gray, 


96  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


has  the  lead.  But  look ! how  they  have  thinned  out ! 
Down  flat,  — flve,  — six,  — how  many  ? They  lie 
still  enough  ! they  will  not  get  up  again  in  this  race, 
be  very  sure  ! And  the  rest  of  them,  what  a tailing 
off  ” ! Anybody  can  see  who  is  going  to  win,  — per- 
haps. 

Thirty  years.  Third  corner  turned.  Dives^  bright 
sorrel,  ridden  by  the  fellow  in  a yellow  jacket,  begins 
to  make  play  fast ; is  getting  to  be  the  favorite  with 
many.  But  who  is  that  other  one  that  has  been  length- 
ening his  stride  from  the  first,  and  now  shows  close  up 
to  the  front  ? Don’t  you  remember  the  quiet  brown 
colt  Asteroid^  with  the  star  in  his  forehead?  That  is 
he  ; he  is  one  of  the  sort  that  lasts ; look  out  for  him  ! 
The  black  ‘‘  colt,”  as  we  used  to  call  him,  is  in  the 
background,  taking  it  easily  in  a gentle  trot.  There 
is  one  they  used  to  call  the  Filly.,  on  account  of  a cer- 
tain feminine  air  he  had  ; well  up,  you  see ; the  Filly 
is  not  to  be  despised,  my  boy ! 

Forty  years.  More  dropping  off,  — but  places  much 
as  before. 

Fifty  years.  Race  over.  All  that  are  on  the 
course  are  coming  in  at  a walk ; no  more  running. 
Who  is  ahead  ? Ahead  ? What ! and  the  winning- 
post  a slab  of  white  or  gray  stone  standing  out  from 
that  turf  where  there  is  no  more  jockeying  or  strain- 
ing for  victory  ! W ell,  the  world  marks  their  places 
in  its  betting-book ; but  be  sure  that  these  matter 
very  little,  if  they  have  run  as  well  as  they  knew 
how ! 

— Did  I not  say  to  you  a little  while  ago  that  the 
universe  swam  in  an  ocean  of  similitudes  and  analo- 
gies ? I will  not  quote  Cowley,  or  Burns,  or  Words- 
worth, just  now,  to  show  you  what  thoughts  were  sug- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  97 

gested  to  them  by  the  simplest  natural  objects,  such  as 
a flower  or  a leaf ; but  I will  read  you  a few  lines,  if 
you  do  not  object,  suggested  by  looking  at  a section  of 
one  of  those  chambered  shells  to  which  is  given  the 
name  of  Pearly  Nautilus.  We  need  not  trouble  our- 
selves about  the  distinction  between  this  and  the  Paper 
Nautilus,  the  Argonauta  of  the  ancients.  The  name 
applied  to  both  shows  that  each  has  long  been  com- 
pared to  a ship,  as  you  may  see  more  fully  in  Web- 
ster’s Dictionary,  or  the  Encyclopaedia,”  to  which 
he  refers.  If  you  will  look  into  Eoget’s  Bridgewater 
Treatise,  you  will  find  a figure  of  one  of  these  shells 
and  a section  of  it.  The  last  will  show  you  the  series 
of  enlarging  compartments  successively  dwelt  in  by  the 
animal  that  inhabits  the  shell,  which  is  built  in  a 
widening  spiral.  Can  you  find  no  lesson  in  this  ? 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.* 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 

In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 

* I have  now  and  then  found  a naturalist  who  still  worried 
over  the  distinction  between  the  Pearly  Nautilus  and  the  Paper 
Nautilus,  or  Argonauta.  As  the  stories  about  both  are  mere 
fables,  attaching  to  the  Physalia,  or  Portuguese  man-of-war,  as 
well  as  to  these  two  molluscs,  it  seems  over-nice  to  quarrel  with 
the  poetical  handling  of  a fiction  sufficiently  justified  by  the 
name  commonly  applied  to  the  ship  of  pearl  as  well  as  the  ship 
of  paper. 


7 


98  THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 

As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 

Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 

He  left  the  past  year’s  dwelling  for  the  new. 

Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through. 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee. 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  I 
From  thy  dead  lips  a clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathdd  horn  I 
While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I hear  a voice  that  sings  : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O my  soul. 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  I 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a dome  more  vast. 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life’s  unresting  sea! 


V. 

A LYRIC  conception  — my  friend,  the  Poet,  said  — 
hits  me  like  a bullet  in  the  forehead.  I have  often 
had  the  blood  drop  from  my  cheeks  when  it  struck, 
and  felt  that  I turned  as  white  as  death.  Then  comes 
a creeping  as  of  centipedes  running  down  the  spine, 
— then  a gasp  and  a great  jump  of  the  heart,  — then 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  99 


a sudden  flush  and  a beating  in  the  vessels  of  the 
head,  — then  a long  sigh,  — and  the  poem  is  written. 

It  is  an  impromptu,  I suppose,  then,  if  you  write  it 
so  suddenly,  — I replied. 

No,  — said  he,  — far  from  it.  I said  written,  but  I 
did  not  say  copied.  Every  such  poem  has  a soul  and 
a body,  and  it  is  the  body  of  it,  or  the  copy,  that  men 
read  and  publishers  pay  for.  The  soul  of  it  is  born 
in  an  instant  in  the  poet’s  soul.  It  comes  to  him  a 
thought,  tangled  in  the  meshes  of  a few  sweet  words, 

— words  that  have  loved  each  other  from  the  cradle 
of  the  language,  but  have  never  been  wedded  until 
now.  Whether  it  will  ever  fully  embody  itself  in  a 
bridal  train  of  a dozen  stanzas  or  not  is  uncertain; 
but  it  exists  potentially  from  the  instant  that  the  poet 
turns  pale  with  it.  It  is  enough  to  stun  and  scare 
anybody,  to  have  a hot  thought  come  crashing  into  his 
brain,  and  ploughing  up  those  parallel  ruts  where  the 
wagon  trains  of  common  ideas  were  jogging  along  in 
their  regular  sequences  of  association.  No  wonder  the 
ancient,  made  the  poetical  impulse  wholly  external. 
M.TIVLV  aet8c  ©ea  • Goddess,  — Muse,  — divine  afflatus, 

— something  outside  always,  /never  wrote  any  verses 
worth  reading.  I can’t.  I am  too  stupid.  If  I ever 
copied  any  that  were  worth  reading,  I was  only  a 
medium. 

[I  was  talking  all  this  time  to  our  boarders,  you  un- 
derstand, — telling  them  what  this  poet  told  me.  The 
company  listened  rather  attentively,  I thought,  consid- 
ering the  literary  character  of  the  remarks.] 

The  old  gentleman  opposite  all  at  once  asked  me  if 
I ever  read  anything  better  than  Pope’s  ‘‘  Essay  on 
Man  ” ? Had  I ever  perused  McFingal  ? He  was 
fond  of  poetry  when  he  was  a boy,  — his  mother  taught 


100  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

him  to  say  many  little  pieces,  — he  remembered  one 
beautiful  hymn  ; — and  the  old  gentleman  began,  in 
a clear,  loud  voice,  for  his  years,  — 

“ The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,^’  — 

He  stopped,  as  if  startled  by  our  silence,  and  a faint 
flush  ran  up  beneath  the  thin  white  hairs  that  fell 
upon  his  cheek.  As  I looked  round,  I was  reminded 
of  a show  I once  saw  at  the  Museum,  — the  Sleeping 
Beauty,  I think  they  called  it.  The  old  man’s  sud- 
den breaking  out  in  this  way  turned  every  face  to- 
wards him,  and  each  kept  his  posture  as  if  changed  to 
stone.  Our  Celtic  Bridget,  or  Biddy,  is  not  a fool- 
ish fat  scullion  to  burst  out  crying  for  a sentiment. 
She  is  of  the  serviceable,  red-handed,  broad-and-high- 
shouldered  type;  one  of  those  imported  female  ser- 
vants who  are  known  in  public  by  their  amorphous 
style  of  person,  their  stoop  forwards,  and  a headlong 
and  as  it  were  precipitous  walk, — the  waist  plunging 
downwards  into  the  rocking  pelvis  at  every  heavy  foot- 
fall. Bridget,  constituted  for  action,  not  for  emotion, 
was  about  to  deposit  a plate  heaped  with  something 
upon  the  table,  when  I saw  the  coarse  arm  stretched 
by  my  shoulder  arrested,  — motionless  as  the  arm  of 
a terra-cotta  caryatid ; she  could  n’t  set  the  plate  down 
while  the  old  gentleman  was  speaking! 

He  was  quite  silent  after  this,  still  wearing  the 
slight  flush  on  his  cheek.  Don’t  ever  think  the  po- 
etry is  dead  in  an  old  man  because  his  forehead  is 
wrinkled,  or  that  his  manhood  has  left  him  when  his 
hand  trembles!  If  they  ever  were  there,  they  are 
there  still  ! 

By  and  by  we  got  talking  again.  — Does  a poet 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  101 

love  the  verses  written  through  him,  do  you  think, 
Sir  ? — said  the  divinity-student. 

So  long  as  they  are  warm  from  his  mind,  — carry 
any  of  his  animal  heat  about  them,  I know  he  loves 
them,  — I answered.  When  they  have  had  time  to 
cool,  he  is  more  indifferent. 

A good  deal  as  it  is  with  buckwheat  cakes,  — said 
the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  J ohn. 

The  last  words,  only,  reached  the  ear  of  the  eco- 
nomically organized  female  in  black  bombazine.  — 
Buckwheat  is  skerce  and  high,  — she  remarked. 
[Must  be  a poor  relation  sponging  on  our  landlady 
— pays  nothing,  — so  she  must  stand  by  the  guns  and 
be  ready  to  repel  boarders.] 

I liked  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken,  for  I 
had  some  things  I wanted  to  say,  and  so,  after  waiting 
a minute,  I began  again.  — I don’t  think  the  poems 
I read  you  sometimes  can  be  fairly  appreciated,  given 
to  you  as  they  are  in  the  green  state. 

— You  don’t  know  what  I mean  by  the  green  state? 
Well,  then,  I will  tell  you.  Certain  things  are  good 
for  nothing  until  they  have  been  kept  a long  while  ; 
and  some  are  good  for  nothing  until  they  have  been 
long  kept  and  used.  Of  the  first,  wine  is  the  illustri- 
ous and  immortal  example.  Of  those  which  must  be 
kept  and  used  I will  name  three,  — meerschaum  pipes, 
violins,  and  poems.  The  meerschaum  is  but  a poor 
affair  until  it  has  burned  a thousand  offerings  to  the 
cloud-compelling  deities.  It  comes  to  us  without  com- 
plexion or  flavor,  — born  of  the  sea-foam,  like  Aphro- 
dite, but  colorless  as  'pallida  Mors  herself.  The  fire 
is  lighted  in  its  central  shrine,  and  gradually  the  juices 
which  the  broad  leaves  of  the  Great  Vegetable  had 
sucked  up  from  an  acre  and  curdled  into  a drachm  are 


102  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

diffused  through  its  thirsting  pores.  First  a discolora- 
tion, then  a stain,  and  at  last  a rich,  glowing,  umber 
tint  spreading  over  the  whole  surface.  Nature  true  to 
her  old  brown  autumnal  hue,  you  see,  — as  true  in  the 
fire  of  the  meerschaum  as  in  the  sunshine  of  October ! 
And  then  the  cumulative  wealth  of  its  fragrant  rem- 
iniscences ! he  who  inhales  its  vapors  takes  a thousand 
whiffs  in  a single  breath;  and  one  cannot  touch  it 
without  awakening  the  old  joys  that  hang  around  it  as 
the  smell  of  flowers  clings  to  the  dresses  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  house  of  Farina  ! 

[Don’t  think  I use  a meerschaum  myself,  for  I do 
not^  though  I have  owned  a calumet  since  my  child- 
hood, which  from  a naked  Piet  (of  the  Mohawk  spe- 
cies) my  grandsire  won,  together  with  a tomahawk 
and  beaded  knife-sheath;  paying  for  the  lot  with  a 
bullet-mark  on  his  right  cheek.  On  the  maternal  side 
I inherit  the  loveliest  silver-mounted  tobacco-stopper 
you  ever  saw.  It  is  a little  box-wood  Triton,  carved 
with  charming  liveliness  and  truth.  I have  often  com- 
pared it  to  a figure  in  Raphael’s  Triumph  of  Gala- 
tea.”  It  came  to  me  in  an  ancient  shagreen  case,  — 
how  old  it  is  I do  not  know,  — but  it  must  have  been 
made  since  Sir  Walter  Raleigh’s  time.  If  you  are 
curious,  you  shall  see  it  any  day.  Neither  will  I pre- 
tend that  I am  so  unused  to  the  more  perishable 
smoking  contrivance  that  a few  whiffs  would  make 
me  feel  as  if  I lay  in  a ground-swell  on  the  Bay  of 
Biscay.  I am  not  unacquainted  with  that  fusiform, 
spiral-wound  bundle  of  chopped  stems  and  miscellane- 
ous incombustibles,  the  cigar^  so  called,  of  the  shops, 
— which  to  ‘‘  draw  ” asks  the  suction-power  of  a nurs- 
ling infant  Hercules,  and  to  relish,  the  leathery  palate 
of  an  old  Silenus.  I do  not  advise  you,  young  man, 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OE  THE  BEE  AKF  A ST-TABLE.  103 

even  if  my  illustration  strike  your  fancy,  to  consecrate 
the  flower  of  your  life  to  painting  the  bowl  of  a pipe, 
for,  let  me  assure  you,  the  stain  of  a reverie-breeding 
narcotic  may  strike  deeper  than  you  think  for.  1 
have  seen  the  green  leaf  of  early  promise  grow  brown 
before  its  time  under  such  Nicotian  regimen,  and 
thought  the  umbered  meerschaiun  was  dearly  bought 
at  the  cost  of  a brain  enfeebled  and  a will  enslaved.] 

Violins,  too,  — the  sweet  old  Amati ! — the  divine 
Stradivarius ! Played  on  by  ancient  maestros  until 
the  bow-hand  lost  its  power  and  the  flying  fingers 
stiffened.  Bequeathed  to  the  passionate  young  enthu- 
siast, who  made  it  whisper  his  hidden  love,  and  cry 
his  inarticulate  longings,  and  scream  his  untold  ago- 
nies, and  wail  his  monotonous  despair.  Passed  from 
his  dying  hand  to  the  cold  virtuoso^  who  let  it  slum- 
ber in  its  case  for  a generation,  till,  when  his  hoard 
was  broken  up,  it  came  forth  once  more  and  rode  the 
stormy  symphonies  of  royal  orchestras,  beneath  the 
rushing  bow  of  their  lord  and  leader.  Into  lonely 
prisons  with  improvident  artists ; into  convents  from 
which  arose,  day  and  night,  the  holy  hymns  with 
which  its  tones  were  blended;  and  back  again  to 
orgies  in  which  it  learned  to  howl  and  laugh  as  if  a 
legion  of  devils  were  shut  up  in  it ; then  again  to  the 
gentle  dilettante  who  calmed  it  down  with  easy  melo- 
dies until  it  answered  him  softly  as  in  the  days  of  the 
old  maestros*  And  so  given  into  our  hands,  its  pores 
all  full  of  music ; stained,  like  the  meerschaum, 
through  and  through,  with  the  concentrated  hue  and 
sweetness  of  all  the  harmonies  which  have  kindled 
and  faded  on  its  strings. 

Now  I tell  you  a poem  must  be  kept  and  used.,  like 
a meerschaum,  or  a violin.  A poem  is  just  as  porous 


104  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

as  the  meerschaum ; — the  more  porous  it  is,  the 
better.  I mean  to  say  that  a genuine  poem  is  capable 
of  absorbing  an  indefinite  amount  of  the  essence  of 
our  own  humanity,  — its  tenderness,  its  heroism,  its 
regrets,  its  aspirations,  so  as  to  be  gradually  stained 
through  with  a divine  secondary  color  derived  from 
ourselves.  So  you  see  it  must  take  time  to  bring  the 
sentiment  of  a poem  into  harmony  with  our  nature,  by 
staining  ourselves  through  every  thought  and  image 
our  being  can  penetrate. 

Then  again  as  to  the  mere  music  of  a new  poem, 
why,  who  can  expect  anything  more  from  that  than 
from  the  music  of  a violin  fresh  from  the  maker’s 
hands  ? Now  you  know  very  well  that  there  are  no 
less  than  fifty-eight  different  pieces  in  a violin.  These 
pieces  are  strangers  to  each  other,  and  it  takes  a 
century,  more  or  less,  to  make  them  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted. At  last  they  learn  to  vibrate  in  harmony 
and  the  instrument  becomes  an  organic  whole,  as  if  it 
were  a great  seed-capsule  which  had  grown  from  a 
garden-bed  in  Cremona,  or  elsewhere.  Besides,  the 
wood  is  juicy  and  full  of  sap  for  fifty  years  or  so,  but 
at  the  end  of  fifty  or  a hundred  more  gets  tolerably 
dry  and  comparatively  resonant. 

Don’t  you  see  that  all  this  is  just  as  true  of  a poem  ? 
Counting  each  word  as  a piece,  there  are  more  pieces 
in  an  average  copy  of  verses  than  in  a violin.  The 
poet  has  forced  all  these  words  together,  and  fastened 
them,  and  they  don’t  understand  it  at  first.  But  let 
the  poem  be  repeated  aloud  and  murmured  over  in 
the  mind’s  muffled  whisper  often  enough,  and  at 
length  the  parts  become  knit  together  in  such  absolute 
solidarity  that  you  could  not  change  a syllable  without 
the  whole  world’s  crying  out  against  you  for  meddling 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  105 

with  the  harmonious  fabric.  Observe,  too,  how  the 
drying  process  takes  place  in  the  stuff  of  a poem  just 
as  in  that  of  a violin.  Here  is  a Tyrolese  fiddle  that 
is  just  coming  to  its  hundredth  birthday,  — (Pedro 
Klauss,  Tyroli,  fecit,  1760),  — the  sap  is  pretty  well 
out  of  it.  And  here  is  the  song  of  an  old  poet  whom 
Neaera  cheated : — 

“ Nox  erat,  et  coelo  fulgebat  Luna  sereno 
Inter  minora  sidera, 

Cum  tu  magnorum  numen  laesura  deorum 
In  verba  jurabas  mea.” 

Don’t  you  perceive  the  sonorousness  of  these  old  dead 
Latin  phrases?  Now  I tell  you  that  every  word  fresh 
from  the  dictionary  brings  with  it  a certain  succu- 
lence ; and  though  I cannot  expect  the  sheets  of  the 
Pactolian,”  in  which,  as  I told  you,  I sometimes 
print  my  verses,  to  get  so  dry  as  the  crisp  papyrus 
that  held  those  words  of  Horatius  Flaccus,  yet  you 
may  be  sure,  that,  while  the  sheets  are  damp,  and 
while  the  lines  hold  their  sap,  you  can’t  fairly  judge 
of  my  performances,  and  that,  if  made  of  the  true 
stuff,  they  will  ring  better  after  a while. 

[There  was  silence  for  a brief  space,  after  my  some- 
what elaborate  exposition  of  these  self-evident  analo- 
gies. Presently  a person  turned  towards  me  — I do 
not  choose  to  designate  the  individual  — and  said  that 
he  rather  expected  my  pieces  had  given  pretty  good 
sahtisfahction.”  — I had,  up  to  this  moment,  consid- 
ered this  complimentary  phrase  as  sacred  to  the  use 
of  secretaries  of  lyceums,  and,  as  it  has  been  usually 
accompanied  by  a small  pecuniary  testimonial,  have 
acquired  a certain  relish  for  this  moderately  tepid  and 
unstimulating  expression  of  enthusiasm.  But  as  a re- 


106  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ward  for  gratuitous  services  I confess  I thought  it  a 
little  below  that  blood-heat  standard  which  a man’s 
breath  ought  to  have,  whether  silent,  or  vocal  and  ar- 
ticulate. I waited  for  a favorable  opportunity,  how- 
ever, before  making  the  remarks  which  follow.] 

— There  are  single  expressions,  as  I have  told  you 
already,  that  fix  a man’s  position  for  you  before  you 
have  done  shaking  hands  with  him.  Allow  me  to  ex- 
pand a little.  There  are  several  things,  very  slight 
in  themselves,  yet  implying  other  things  not  so  unim- 
portant. Thus,  your  French  servant  has  devalise 
your  premises  and  got  caught.  Excusez^  says  the 
sergent-de-ville^  as  he  politely  relieves  him  of  his 
upper  garments  and  displays  his  bust  in  the  full  day- 
light. Good  shoulders  enough,  — a little  marked,  — 
traces  of  smallpox,  perhaps,  — but  white.  . . . Crac  ! 
from  the  sergent-de-villd s broad  palm  on  the  white 
shoulder!  Now  look!  Vogue  la  galerel  Out 
comes  the  big  red  V — mark  of  the  hot  iron ; — he  had 
blistered  it  out  pretty  nearly,  — had  n’t  he?  — the  old 
rascal  VOLEUR,  branded  in  the  galleys  at  Mar- 
seilles ! [Don’t ! What  if  he  has  got  something  like 
this  ? — nobody  supposes  I invented  such  a story.] 

My  man  J ohn,  who  used  to  drive  two  of  those  six 
equine  females  which  I told  you  I had  owned,  — for, 
look  you,  my  friends,  simple  though  I stand  here,  I 
am  one  that  has  been  driven  in  his  kerridge,”  — not 
using  that  term,  as  liberal  shepherds  do,  for  any  bat- 
tered old  shabby-genteel  go-cart  which  has  more  than 
one  wheel,  but  meaning  thereby  a four-wheeled  vehicle 
with  a pole^  — my  man  John,  I say,  was  a retired 
soldier.  He  retired  unostentatiously,  as  many  of  Her 
Majesty’s  modest  servants  have  done  before  and  since. 
John  told  me,  that  when  an  officer  thinks  he  recog- 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  107 

nizes  one  of  these  retiring  heroes,  and  would  know  if 
he  has  really  been  in  the  service,  that  he  may  restore 
him,  if  possible,  to  a grateful  country,  he  comes  sud- 
denly upon  him,  and  says,  sharply,  “ Strap  ! ” If  he 
has  ever  worn  the  shoulder-strap,  he  has  learned  the 
reprimand  for  its  ill  adjustment.  The  old  word  of 
command  flashes  through  his  muscles,  and  his  hand 
goes  up  in  an  instant  to  the  place  where  the  strap 
used  to  be. 

[I  was  all  the  time  preparing  for  my  grand  coup^ 
you  understand ; but  I saw  they  were  not  quite  ready 
for  it,  and  so  continued,  — always  in  illustration  of 
the  general  principle  I had  laid  down.] 

Yes,  odd  things  come  out  in  ways  that  nobody 
thinks  of.  There  was  a legend,  that,  when  the  Dan- 
ish pirates  made  descents  upon  the  English  coast, 
they  caught  a few  Tartars  occasionally,  in  the  shape 
of  Saxons,  who  would  not  let  them  go,  — on  the  con- 
trary, insisted  on  their  staying,  and,  to  make  sure  of 
it,  treated  them  as  Apollo  treated  Marsyas,  or  as  Bar- 
tholinus  has  treated  a fellow-creature  in  his  title-page, 
and,  having  divested  them  of  the  one  essential  and 
perfectly  fitting  garment,  indispensable  in  the  mildest 
climates,  nailed  the  same  on  the  church-door  as  we  do 
the  banns  of  marriage,  in  terrorem. 

[There  was  a laugh  at  this  among  some  of  the 
young  folks ; but  as  I looked  at  our  landlady,  I saw 
that  ‘‘  the  water  stood  in  her  eyes,”  as  it  did  in  Chris- 
tiana’s when  the  interpreter  asked  her  about  the  spi- 
der, and  I fancied,  but  was  n’t  quite  sure  that  the 
schoolmistress  blushed,  as  Mercy  did  in  the  same 
conversation,  as  you  remember.] 

That  sounds  like  a cock-and-bull-story,  — said  the 
young  fellow  whom  they  caU  John.  I abstained 


108  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

from  making  Hamlet’s  remark  to  Horatio,  and  con- 
tinued. 

Not  long  since,  the  church-wardens  were  repairing 
and  beautifying  an  old  Saxon  church  in  a certain  Eng- 
lish village,  and  among  other  things  thought  the 
doors  should  be  attended  to.  One  of  them  particu- 
larly, the  front-door,  looked  very  badly,  crusted,  as  it 
were,  and  as  if  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  scraping. 
There  happened  to  be  a microscopist  in  the  village 
who  had  heard  the  old  pirate  story,  and  he  took  it  into 
his  head  to  examine  the  crust  on  this  door.  There 
was  no  mistake  about  it ; it  was  a genuine  historical 
document,  of  the  Ziska  drum-head  pattern,  — a real 
cutis,  humana^  stripped  from  some  old  Scandinavian 
filibuster,  and  the  legend  was  true. 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  settled  an  important  his- 
torical and  financial  question  once  by  the  aid  of  an 
exceedingly  minute  fragment  of  a similar  document. 
Behind  the  pane  of  plate-glass  which  bore  his  name 
and  title  burned  a modest  lamp,  signifying  to  the 
passers-by  that  at  all  hours  of  the  night  the  slightest 
favors  (or  fevers)  were  welcome.  A youth  who  had 
freely  partaken  of  the  cup  which  cheers  and  likewise 
inebriates,  following  a moth-like  impulse  very  natural 
under  the  circumstances,  dashed  his  fist  at  the  light 
and  quenched  the  meek  luminary,  — breaking  through 
the  plate-glass,  of  course,  to  reach  it.  Now  I don’t 
want  to  go  into  minutice  at  table,  you  know,  but  a 
naked  hand  can  no  more  go  through  a pane  of  thick 
glass  without  leaving  some  of  its  cuticle,  to  say  the 
least,  behind  it,  than  a butterfly  can  go  through  a sau- 
sage-machine without  looking  the  worse  for  it.  The 
Professor  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  glass,  and  with 
them  certain  very  minute  but  entirely  satisfactory  doc- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  109 

uments  which  would  have  identified  and  hanged  any 
rogue  in  Christendom  who  had  parted  with  them.  — 
The  historical  question,  Who  did  it  f and  the  financial 
question,  Who  paid  for  it  ? were  both  settled  before 
the  new  lamp  was  lighted  the  next  evening. 

You  see,  my  friends,  what  immense  conclusions, 
touching  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred  honor, 
may  be  reached  by  means  of  very  insignificant  prem- 
ises. This  is  eminently  true  of  manners  and  forms  of 
speech ; a movement  or  a phrase  often  tells  you  all 
you  want  to  know  about  a person.  Thus,  How ’s 
your  health?  ” (commonly  pronounced  haalth')  instead 
of.  How  do  you  do  ? or.  How  are  you  ? Or  calling 
your  little  dark  entry  a hall,”  and  your  old  rickety 
one-horse  wagon  a kerridge.”  Or  telling  a person 
who  has  been  trying  to  please  you  that  he  has  given 
you  pretty  good  sahtisfahction.”  Or  saying  that  you 

remember  of  ” such  a thing,  or  that  you  have  been 
“ stoppin-  ” at  Deacon  Somebody’s,  — and  other  such 
expressions.  One  of  my  friends  had  a little  marble 
statuette  of  Cupid  in  the  parlor  of  his  country-house, 
— bow,  arrows,  wings,  and  all  complete.  A visitor, 
indigenous  to  the  region,  looking  pensively  at  the  fig- 
ure, asked  the  lady  of  the  house  if  that  was  a statoo 
of  her  deceased  infant  ? ” What  a delicious,  though 
somewhat  voluminous  biography,  social,  educational, 
and  aesthetic,  in  that  brief  question ! 

[Please  observe  with  what  Machiavellian  astuteness 
I smuggled  in  the  particular  offence  which  it  was  my 
object  to  hold  up  to  my  fellow-boarders,  without  too 
personal  an  attack  on  the  individual  at  whose  door  it 
lay.] 

That  was  an  exceedingly  dull  person  who  made  the 
remark.  Ex  pede  Herculem.  He  might  as  well  have 


110  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

said,  ‘‘  from  a peck  of  apples  you  may  judge  of  the 
barrel.”  Ex  pede,  to  be  sure  ! Read,  instead,  Ex 
ungue  minimi  digiti  pedis^  Herculem^  ejusque  pa- 
trem^  matrem^  avos  et  proavos^  filios^  nepotes  et  pro- 
nepotes  ! Talk  to  me  about  your  80s  ttot)  <ttw  ! Tell 
me  about  Cuvier’s  getting  up  a megatherium  from  a 
tooth,  or  Agassiz’s  drawing  a portrait  of  an  undiscov- 
ered fish  from  a single  scale  ! As  the  ‘‘  O ” revealed 
Giotto,  — as  the  one  word  ^‘moi  ” betrayed  the  Strat- 
ford-atte-Bowe-taught  Anglais,  — so  all  a man’s  ante- 
cedents and  possibilities  are  summed  up  in  a single  ut- 
terance which  gives  at  once  the  gauge  of  his  education 
and  his  mental  organization. 

Possibilities,  Sir  ? — said  the  divinity-student ; can’t 
a man  who  says  Haow  ? arrive  at  distinction  ? 

Sir,  — I replied,  — in  a republic  all  things  are  pos- 
sible. But  the  man  with  a future  has  almost  of  ne- 
cessity sense  enough  to  see  that  any  odious  trick  of 
speech  or  manners  must  be  got  rid  of.  Does  n’t  Syd- 
ney Smith  say  that  a public  man  in  England  never 
gets  over  a false  quantity  uttered  in  early  life  ? Our 
public  men  are  in  little  danger  of  this  fatal  mis-step, 
as  few  of  them  are  in  the  habit  of  introducing  Latin 
into  their  speeches,  — for  good  and  sufficient  reasons. 
But  they  are  bound  to  speak  decent  English,  — un- 
less, indeed,  they  are  rough  old  campaigners,  like  Gen- 
eral J ackson  or  General  Taylor ; in  which  case,  a few 
scars  on  Priscian’s  head  are  pardoned  to  old  fellows 
who  have  quite  as  many  on  their  own,  and  a constitu- 
ency of  thirty  empires  is  not  at  all  particular,  provided 
they  do  not  swear  in  their  Presidential  Messages. 

However,  it  is  not  for  me  to  talk.  I have  made 
mistakes  enough  in  conversation  and  print.  I never 
find  them  out  until  they  are  stereotyped,  and  then  I 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  Ill 

think  they  rarely  escape  me.  I have  no  doubt  I shall 
make  half  a dozen  slips  before  this  breakfast  is  over, 
and  remember  them  all  before  another.  How  one 
does  tremble  with  rage  at  his  own  intense  momentary 
stupidity  about  things  he  knows  perfectly  well,  and  to 
think  how  he  lays  himself  open  to  the  impertinences 
of  the  captatores  verhorum^  those  useful  but  humble 
scavengers  of  the  language,  whose  business  it  is  to 
pick  up  what  might  offend  or  injure,  and  remove  it, 
hugging  and  feeding  on  it  as  they  go ! I don’t  want 
to  speak  too  slightingly  of  these  verbal  critics  ; — how 
can  I,  who  am  so  fond  of  talking  about  errors  and 
vulgarisms  of  speech  ? Only  there  is  a difference  be- 
tween those  clerical  blunders  which  almost  every  man 
commits,  knowing  better,  and  that  habitual  grossness 
or  meanness  of  speech  which  is  unendurable  to  edu- 
cated persons,  from  anybody  that  wears  silk  or  broad- 
cloth. 

[I  write  down  the  above  remarks  this  morning, 
January  26th,  making  this  record  of  the  date  that  no- 
body may  think  it  was  written  in  wrath,  on  account  of 
any  particular  grievance  suffered  from  the  invasion  of 
any  individual  scaraboeus  grammaticus.~\ 

— I wonder  if  anybody  ever  finds  fault  with  any- 
tliing  I say  at  this  table  when  it  is  repeated  ? I hope 
they  do,  I am  sure.  I should  be  very  certain  that  I 
had  said  nothing  of  much  significance,  if  they  did 
not. 

Did  you  never,  in  walking  In  the  fields,  come  across 
a large  flat  stone,  which  had  lain,  nobody  knows  how 
long,  just  where  you  found  it,  with  the  grass  forming 
a little  hedge,  as  it  were,  all  round  it,  close  to  its  edges, 
— and  have  you  not,  in  obedience  to  a kind  of  feeling 
that  told  you  it  had  been  lying  there  long  enough,  in- 


112  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

sinuated  your  stick  or  your  foot  or  your  fingers  under 
its  edge  and  turned  it  over  as  a housewife  turns  a cake, 
when  she  says  to  herself,  It ’s  done  brown  enough 
by  this  time  ” ? What  an  odd  revelation,  and  what 
an  unforeseen  and  unpleasant  surprise  to  a small  com- 
munity, the  very  existence  of  which  you  had  not  sus- 
pected, until  the  sudden  dismay  and  scattering  among 
its  members  produced  by  your  turning  the  old  stone 
over  ! Blades  of  grass  flattened  down,  colorless, 
matted  together,  as  if  they  had  been  bleached  and 
ironed ; hideous  crawling  creatures,  some  of  them  co- 
leopterous or  horny-shelled,  — turtle-bugs  one  wants 
to  call  them ; some  of  them  softer,  but  cunningly 
spread  out  and  compressed  like  Lepine  watches ; 
(Nature  never  loses  a crack  or  a crevice,  mind  you, 
or  a joint  in  a tavern  bedstead,  but  she  always  has 
one  of  her  flat-pattern  live  timekeepers  to  slide  into 
it ;)  black,  glossy  crickets,  with  their  long  filaments 
sticking  out  like  the  whips  of  four-horse  stage-coaches ; 
motionless,  slug-like  creatures,  young  larvae,  perhaps 
more  horrible  in  their  pulpy  stillness  than  even  in  the 
infernal  wriggle  of  maturity ! But  no  sooner  is  the 
stone  turned  and  the  wholesome  light  of  day  let  upon 
this  compressed  and  blinded  community  of  creeping 
things,  than  all  of  them  which  enjoy  the  luxury  of  legs 
— and  some  of  them  have  a good  many  — rush  round 
wildly,  butting  each  other  and  everything  in  their  way, 
and  end  in  a general  stampede  for  underground  re- 
treats from  the  region  poisoned  by  sunshine.  Next 
year  you  will  find  the  grass  growing  tall  and  green 
where  the  stone  lay ; the  groimd-bird  builds  her  nest 
where  the  beetle  had  his  hole ; the  dandelion  and  the 
buttercup  are  growing  there,  and  the  broad  fans  of  in- 
sect-angels open  and  shut  over  their  golden  disks,  as 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  113 


the  rhythmic  waves  of  blissful  consciousness  pulsate 
through  their  glorified  being. 

— The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  saw  fit 
to  say,  in  his  very  familiar  way,  — at  which  I do  not 
choose  to  take  offence,  but  which  I sometimes  think  it 
necessary  to  repress,  that  I was  coming  it  rather  strong 
on  the  butterflies. 

No,  I replied ; there  is  meaning  in  each  of  those 
images,  — the  butterfly  as  well  as  the  others.  The 
stone  is  ancient  error.  The  grass  is  human  nature 
borne  down  and  bleached  of  all  its  color  by  it.  The 
shapes  which  are  found  beneath  are  the  crafty  beings 
that  thrive  in  darkness,  and  the  weaker  organisms 
kept  helpless  by  it.  He  who  turns  the  stone  over  is 
whosoever  puts  the  staff  of  truth  to  the  old  lying  in- 
cubus, no  matter  whether  he  do  it  with  a serious  face 
or  a laughing  one.  The  next  year  stands  for  the  com- 
ing time.  Then  shall  the  nature  which  had  lain 
blanched  and  broken  rise  in  its  full  stature  and  native 
hues  in  the  sunshine.  Then  shall  God’s  minstrels 
build  their  nests  in  the  hearts  of  a newborn  humanity. 
Then  shall  beauty  — Divinity  taking  outlines  and 
color  — light  upon  the  souls  of  men  as  the  butterfly, 
image  of  the  beatified  spirit  rising  from  the  dust, 
soars  from  the  shell  that  held  a poor  grub,  which 
would  never  have  found  wings  had  not  the  stone  been 
lifted. 

You  never  need  think  you  can  turn  over  any  old 
falsehood  without  a terrible  squirming  and  scattering 
of  the  horrid  little  population  that  dwells  under  it. 

— Every  real  thought  on  every  real  subject  knocks 
the  wind  out  of  somebody  or  other.  As  soon  as  his 
breath  comes  back,  he  very  probably  begins  to  expend 
it  in  hard  words.  These  are  the  best  evidence  a man 

8 


114  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

can  have  that  he  has  said  something  it  was  time  to 
say.  Dr.  Johnson  was  disappointed  in  the  effect  of 
one  of  his  pamphlets.  ‘‘  I think  I have  not  been  at- 
tacked enough  for  it,”  he  said  ; — “ attack  is  the  re- 
action; I never  think  I have  bit  hard  unless  it  re- 
bounds.” 

— If  a fellow  attacked  my  opinions  in  print  would 
I reply  ? Not  I.  Do  you  think  I don’t  understand 
what  my  friend,  the  Professor,  long  ago  called  the 
hydrostatic  paradox  of  controversy  f 

Don’t  know  what  that  means  ? — W ell,  I will  tell 
you.  You  know,  that,  if  you  had  a bent  tube,  one 
arm  of  which  was  of  the  size  of  a pipe-stem,  and  the 
other  big  enough  to  hold  the  ocean,  water  would 
stand  at  the  same  height  in  one  as  in  the  other.  Con- 
troversy equalizes  fools  and  wise  men  in  the  same  way, 
— and  the  fools  know  it. 

— No,  but  I often  read  what  they  say  about  other 
people.  There  are  about  a dozen  phrases  which  all 
come  tumbling  along  together,  like  the  tongs,  and  the 
shovel,  and  the  poker,  and  the  brush,  and  the  bellows, 
in  one  of  those  domestic  avalanches  that  everybody 
knows.  If  you  get  one,  you  get  the  whole  lot. 

What  are  they  ? — Oh,  that  depends  a good  deal  on 
latitude  and  longitude.  Epithets  follow  the  isother- 
mal lines  pretty  accurately.  Grouping  them  in  two 
families,  one  finds  himself  a clever,  genial,  witty,  wise, 
brilliant,  sparkling,  thoughtful,  distinguished,  cele- 
brated, illustrious  scholar  and  perfect  gentleman,  and 
first  writer  of  the  age ; or  a dull,  foolish,  wicked,  pert, 
shallow,  ignorant,  insolent,  traitorous,  black-hearted 
outcast,  and  disgrace  to  civilization. 

What  do  I think  determines  the  set  of  phrases  a 
man  gets?  — Well,  I should  say  a set  of  influences 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  115 


something  like  these : — 1st.  Relationships,  political, 
religious,  social,  domestic.  2d.  Oysters,  in  the  form 
of  suppers  given  to  gentlemen  connected  with  criti- 
cism. I believe  in  the  school,  the  college,  and  the 
clergy ; but  my  sovereign  logic,  for  regulating  public 
opinion  — which  means  commonly  the  opinion  of  half 
a dozen  of  the  critical  gentry  — is  the  following.  Major 
proposition.  Oysters  au  naturel.  Minor  proposition. 
The  same  “ scalloped.”  Conclusion.  That  — (here 
insert  entertainer’s  name)  is  clever,  witty,  wise,  bril- 
liant, — and  the  rest. 

— No,  it  isn’t  exactly  bribery.  One  man  has  oys- 
ters, and  another  epithets.  It  is  an  exchange  of  hos- 
pitalities ; one  gives  a spread  ” on  linen,  and  the  other 
on  paper,  — that  is  all.  Don’t  you  think  you  and  I 
should  be  apt  to  do  just  so,  if  we  were  in  the  critical 
line  ? I am  sure  I coidd  n’t  resist  the  softening  influ- 
ences of  hospitality.  I don’t  like  to  dine  out,  you 
know,  — I dine  so  well  at  our  own  table  [our  land- 
lady looked  radiant],  and  the  company  is  so  pleasant 
[a  rustling  movement  of  satisfaction  among  the  board- 
ers] ; but  if  I did  partake  of  a man’s  salt,  with  such 
additions  as  that  article  of  food  requires  to  make  it 
palatable,  I could  never  abuse  him,  and  if  I had  to 
speak  of  him,  I suppose  I should  hang  my  set  of  jing- 
ling epithets  round  him  like  a string  of  sleigh-bells. 
Good  feeling  helps  society  to  make  liars  of  most  of  us, 
— not  absolute  liars,  but  such  careless  handlers  of 
truth  that  its  sharp  corners  get  terribly  rounded.  I 
love  truth  as  chiefest  among  the  virtues ; I trust  it 
runs  in  my  blood  ; but  I would  never  be  a critic,  be- 
cause I know  I could  not  always  tell  it.  I might  write 
a criticism  of  a book  that  happened  to  please  me ; that 
is  another  matter. 


116  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— Listen,  Benjamin  Franklin ! This  is  for  you,  and 
such  others  of  tender  age  as  you  may  tell  it  to. 

When  we  are  as  yet  small  children,  long  before  the 
time  when  those  two  grown  ladies  offer  us  the  choice 
of  Hercules,  there  comes  up  to  us  a youthful  angel, 
holding  in  his  right  hand  cubes  like  dice,  and  in  his 
left  spheres  like  marbles.  The  cubes  are  of  stainless 
ivory,  and  on  each  is  written  in  letters  of  gold  — 
Truth.  The  spheres  are  veined  and  streaked  and 
spotted  beneath,  with  a dark  crimson  flush  above, 
where  the  light  falls  on  them,  and  in  a certain  aspect 
you  can  make  out  upon  every  one  of  them  the  three 
letters  L,  I,  E.  The  child  to  whom  they  are  offered 
very  probably  clutches  at  both.  The  spheres  are  the 
most  convenient  things  in  the  world;  they  roll  with 
the  least  possible  impulse  just  where  the  child  would 
have  them.  The  cubes  will  not  roll  at  all ; they  have 
a great  talent  for  standing  still,  and  always  keep  right 
side  up.  But  very  soon  the  young  philosopher  finds 
that  things  which  roll  so  easily  are  very  apt  to  roll 
into  the  wrong  corner,  and  to  get  out  of  his  way 
when  he  most  wants  them,  while  he  always  knows 
where  to  find  the  others,  which  stay  where  they  are 
left.  Thus  he  learns  — thus  we  learn  — to  drop  the 
streaked  and  speckled  globes  of  falsehood  and  to  hold 
fast  the  white  angular  blocks  of  truth.  But  then 
comes  Timidity,  and  after  her  Good-nature,  and  last 
of  all  Polite-behavior,  all  insisting  that  truth  must 
roll^  or  nobody  can  do  anything  with  it ; and  so  the 
first  with  her  coarse  rasp,  and  the  second  with  her 
broad  file,  and  the  third  with  her  silken  sleeve,  do  so 
round  off  and  smooth  and  polish  the  snow-white  cubes 
of  truth,  that,  when  they  have  got  a little  dingy  by  use, 
it  becomes  hard  to  tell  them  from  the  rolling  spheres 
of  falsehood. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  117 

The  schoolmistress  was  polite  enough  to  say  that 
she  was  pleased  with  this,  and  that  she  would  read  it 
to  her  little  flock  the  next  day.  But  she  should  tell 
the  children,  she  said,  that  there  were  better  reasons 
for  truth  than  could  be  found  in  mere  experience  of 
its  convenience  and  the  inconvenience  of  lying. 

Yes,  — I said,  — but  education  always  begins 
through  the  senses,  and  works  up  to  the  idea  of  ab- 
solute right  and  wrong.  The  first  thing  the  child  has 
to  learn  about  this  matter  is,  that  lying  is  unprofita- 
ble, — afterwards  that  it  is  against  the  peace  and  dig- 
nity of  the  universe. 

— Do  I think  that  the  particular  form  of  lying 
often  seen  in  newspapers,  under  the  title,  From  our 
Foreign  Correspondent,”  does  any  harm?  — Why,  no, 
— I don’t  know  that  it  does.  I suppose  it  does  n’t 
really  deceive  people  any  more  than  the  ‘‘Arabian 
Nights  ” or  “ Gulliver’s  Travels  ” do.  Sometimes  the 
writers  compile  too  carelessly,  though,  and  mix  up 
facts  out  of  geographies,  and  stories  out  of  the  penny 
papers,  so  as  to  mislead  those  who  are  desirous  of  in- 
formation. I cut  a piece  out  of  one  of  the  papers  the 
other  day,  which  contains  a number  of  improbabilities, 
and,  I suspect,  misstatements.  I will  send  up  and  get 
it  for  you,  if  you  would  like  to  hear  it.  — Ah,  this  is 
it ; it  is  headed 

“Our  Sumatra  Correspondence. 

“ This  island  is  now  the  property  of  the  Stamford 
family,  — having  been  won,  it  is  said,  in  a rafiie,  by 

Sir Stamford,  during  the  stock-gambling  mania 

of  the  South-Sea  Scheme.  The  history  of  this  gentle- 
man may  be  found  in  an  interesting  series  of  questions 
(unfortunately  not  yet  answered)  contained  in  the 


118  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

‘ Notes  and  Queries.’  This  island  is  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  the  ocean,  which  here  contains  a large 
amount  of  saline  substance,  crystallizing  in  cubes  re- 
markable for  their  symmetry,  and  frequently  displays 
on  its  surface,  during  calm  weather,  the  rainbow  tints 
of  the  celebrated  South-Sea  bubbles.  The  summers 
are  oppressively  hot,  and  the  winters  very  probably 
cold ; but  this  fact  cannot  be  ascertained  precisely,  as, 
for  some  peculiar  reason,  the  mercury  in  these  lati- 
tudes never  shrinks,  as  in  more  northern  regions,  and 
thus  the  thermometer  is  rendered  useless  in  winter. 

‘‘  The  principal  vegetable  productions  of  the  island 
are  the  pepper  tree  and  the  bread-fruit  tree.  Pepper 
being  very  abundantly  produced,  a benevolent  society 
was  organized  in  London  during  the  last  century  for 
supplying  the  natives  with  vinegar  and  oysters,  as  an 
addition  to  that  delightful  condiment.  [Note  received 
from  Dr.  D.  P.]  It  is  said,  however,  that,  as  the  oys- 
ters were  of  the  kind  called  natives  in  England,  the 
natives  of  Sumatra,  in  obedience  to  a natural  instinct, 
refused  to  touch  them,  and  confined  themselves  en- 
tirely to  the  crew  of  the  vessel  in  which  they  were 
brought  over.  This  information  was  received  from  one 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  a native  himself,  and  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  missionaries.  He  is  said  also  to  be  very 
skilful  in  the  cuisine  peculiar  to  the  island. 

“During  the  season  of  gathering  the  pepper,  the 
persons  employed  are  subject  to  various  incommodi- 
ties, the  chief  of  which  is  violent  and  long-continued 
sternutation,  or  sneezing.  Such  is  the  vehemence  of 
these  attacks,  that  the  unfortunate  subjects  of  them 
are  often  driven  backwards  for  great  distances  at  im- 
mense speed,  on  the  well-known  principle  of  the 
geolipile.  Not  being  able  to  see  where  they  are  going, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  119 

these  poor  creatures  dash  themselves  to  pieces  against 
the  rocks  or  are  precipitated  over  the  cliffs  and  thus 
many  valuable  lives  are  lost  annually.  As,  during  the 
whole  pepper-harvest,  they  feed  exclusively  on  this 
stimulant,  they  become  exceedingly  irritable.  The 
smallest  injury  is  resented  with  ungovernable  rage.  A 
young  man  suffering  from  the  pepper-fever^  as  it  is 
called,  cudgelled  another  most  severely  for  appropriat- 
ing a superannuated  relative  of  trifling  value,  and  was 
only  pacified  by  having  a present  made  him  of  a pig 
of  that  peculiar  species  of  swine  called  the  Peccavi  by 
the  Catholic  Jews,  who,  it  is  well  known,  abstain  from 
swine’s  flesh  in  imitation  of  the  Mahometan  Bud- 
dhists. 

‘‘  The  bread-tree  grows  abundantly.  Its  branches 
are  well  known  to  Europe  and  America  under  the 
familiar  nane  of  macearoni.  The  smaller  twigs  are 
called  vermicelli.  They  have  a decided  animal  flavor, 
as  may  be  observed  in  the  soups  containing  them. 
Maccaroni,  being  tubular,  is  the  favorite  habitat  of  a 
very  dangerous  insect,  which  is  rendered  peculiarly  fero- 
cious by  being  boiled.  The  government  of  the  island, 
therefore,  never  allows  a stick  of  it  to  be  exported 
without  being  accompanied  by  a piston  with  which  its 
cavity  may  at  any  time  be  thoroughly  swept  out. 
These  are  commonly  lost  or  stolen  before  the  macca- 
roni arrives  among  us.  It  therefore  always  contains 
many  of  these  insects,  which,  however,  generally  die  of 
old  age  in  the  shops,  so  that  accidents  from  this  source 
are  comparatively  rare. 

The  fruit  of  the  bread-tree  consists  principally  of 
hot  rolls.  The  buttered-muffin  variety  is  supposed  to 
be  a hybrid  with  the  cocoa-nut  palm,  the  cream  found 
on  the  milk  of  the  cocoa-nut  exuding  from  the  hybrid 


120  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

in  the  shape  of  butter,  just  as  the  ripe  fruit  is  split- 
ting, so  as  to  fit  it  for  the  tea-table,  where  it  is  com- 
monly served  up  with  cold  ” — 

— There,  — I don’t  want  to  read  any  more  of  it. 
You  see  that  many  of  these  statements  are  highly  im- 
probable. — No,  I shall  not  mention  the  paper.  — No, 
neither  of  them  wrote  it,  though  it  reminds  me  of  the 
style  of  these  popular  writers.  I think  the  fellow  who 
wrote  it  must  have  been  reading  some  of  their  stories, 
and  got  them  mixed  up  with  his  history  and  geog- 
raphy. I don’t  suppose  he  lies  — he  sells  it  to  the 
editor,  who  knows  how  many  squares  off  Sumatra  ” 
is.  The  editor,  who  sells  it  to  the  public  — By  the 
way,  the  papers  have  been  very  civil  — haven’t  they  ? 
— to  the  — the  — what  d’ye  call  it  ? — Northern 
Magazine,” — isn’t  it?  — got  up  by  some  of  those 
Come-outers,  down  East,  as  an  organ  for  their  local 
peculiarities. 

— The  Professor  has  been  to  see  me.  Came  in, 
glorious,  at  about  twelve  o’clock,  last  night.  Said  he 
had  been  with  the  boys.”  On  inquiry,  found  that 
‘^the  boys”  were  cert’ain  baldish  and  grayish  old 
gentlemen  that  one  sees  or  hears  of  in  various  im- 
portant stations  of  society.  The  Professor  is  one  of 
the  same  set,  but  he  always  talks  as  if  he  had  been 

out  of  college  about  ten  years,  whereas 

[Each  of  these  dots  was  a little  nod,  which  the  com- 
pany understood,  as  the  reader  will,  no  doubt.]  He 
calls  them  sometimes  “the  boys,”  and  sometimes  “the 
old  fellows.”  Call  him  by  the  latter  title,  and  see 
how  he  likes  it.  — W ell,  he  came  in  last  night  glori- 
ous, as  I was  saying.  Of  course  I don’t  mean  vin- 
ously  exalted ; he  drinks  little  wine  on  such  occasions, 
and  is  well  known  to  all  the  Peters  and  Patricks  as 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  121 

the  gentleman  who  always  has  indefinite  quantities  of 
black  tea  to  kill  any  extra  glass  of  red  claret  he  may 
have  swallowed.  But  the  Professor  says  he  always 
gets  tipsy  on  old  memories  at  these  gatherings.  He 
was,  I forget  how  many  years  old  when  he  went  to 
the  meeting ; just  turned  of  twenty  now,  — he  said. 
He  made  various  youthful  proposals  to  me,  including 
a duet  under  the  landlady’s  daughter’s  window.  He 
had  just  learned  a trick,  he  said,  of  one  of  the  boys,” 
of  getting  a splendid  bass  out  of  a door-panel  by  rub- 
bing it  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Offered  to  sing 
‘‘The  sky  is  bright,”  accompanying  himself  on  the 
front-door,  if  I would  go  down  and  help  in  the  chorus. 
Said  there  never  was  such  a set  of  fellows  as  the  old 
boys  of  the  set  he  has  been  with.  Judges,  mayors, 
Congress-men,  Mr.  Speakers,  leaders  in  science,  clergy- 
men better  than  famous,  and  famous  too,  poets  by  the 
half-dozen,  singers  with  voices  like  angels,  financiers, 
wits,  three  of  the  best  laughers  in  the  Commonwealth, 
engineers,  agriculturists,  — all  forms  of  talent  and 
knowledge  he  pretended  were  represented  in  that  meet- 
ing. Then  he  began  to  quote  Byron  about  Santa 
Croce,  and  maintained  that  he  could  “ furnish  out 
creation  ” in  all  its  details  from  that  set  of  his.  He 
would  like  to  have  the  whole  boodle  of  them  (I  re- 
monstrated against  this  word,  but  the  Professor  said  it 
was  a diabolish  good  word,  and  he  would  have  no 
other),  with  their  wives  and  children  shipwrecked  on 
a remote  island,  just  to  see  how  splendidly  they  would 
reorganize  society.  They  could  build  a city,  — they 
have  done  it ; make  constitutions  and  laws  ; establish 
churches  and  lyceums  ; teach  and  practise  the  heal- 
ing art ; instruct  in  every  department ; found  observ- 
atories; create  commerce  and  manufactures;  write 


122  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

songs  and  hymns,  and  sing  ’em,  and  make  instru- 
ments to  accompany  the  songs  with ; lastly,  publish  a 
journal  almost  as  good  as  the  Northern  Magazine,” 
edited  by  the  Come-outers.  There  was  nothing  they 
were  not  up  to,  from  a christening  to  a hanging ; the 
last,  to  be  sure,  could  never  be  called  for,  unless  some 
stranger  got  in  among  them. 

— I let  the  Professor  talk  as  long  as  he  liked ; it 
did  n’t  make  much  difference  to  me  whether  it  was 
all  truth,  or  partly  made  up  of  pale  Sherry  and  simi- 
lar elements.  All  at  once  he  jumped  up  and  said,  — 

Don’t  you  want  to  hear  what  I just  read  to  the 
boys? 

I have  had  questions  of  a similar  character  asked 
me  before,  occasionally.  A man  of  iron  mould  might 
perhaps  say.  No ! I am  not  a man  of  iron  mould,  and 
said  that  I should  be  delighted. 

The  Professor  then  read  — with  that  slightly  sing- 
song cadence  which  is  observed  to  be  common  in  poets 
reading  their  own  verses  — the  following  stanzas; 
holding  them  at  a focal  distance  of  about  two  feet  and 
a half,  with  an  occasional  movement  back  or  forward 
for  better  adjustment,  the  appearance  of  which  has 
been  likened  by  some  impertinent  young  folks  to  that 
of  the  act  of  playing  on  the  trombone.  His  eyesight 
was  never  better  ; I have  his  word  for  it. 

MARE  RUBRUM. 

Flash  out  a stream  of  blood-red  wine ! — 

For  I would  drink  to  other  days; 

And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze. 

The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade; 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood’s  dream 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  123 


By  Nature’s  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream. 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay 
And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun 
Where  the  long  summer’s  cloudless  day 
Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 

It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast. 

Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die. 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 

Kiss  but  the  crystal’s  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a bubble  from  its  brim 
And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Ppor  Beauty ! time  and  fortune’s  wrong 
No  form  nor  feature  may  withstand,  — 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand  ; — 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl. 

As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall ; 

Here  rest  — their  keen  vibrations  mute  — 
The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well. 

The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 
Life’s  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed; 


124  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE* 


And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 
We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 

What  wizard  fills  the  maddening  glass? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew, 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 
In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  ? 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood -red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a warmer  glow, 

Filled  from  a vintage  more  divine,  — 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled  by  winter’s  snow  I 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana’s  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee ! 


VI. 

Sin  has  many  tools,  but  a lie  is  the  handle  which 
fits  them  all. 

— I think,  Sir,  — said  the  divinity-student,  — you 
must  intend  that  for  one  of  the  sayings  of  the  Seven 
Wise  Men  of  Boston  you  were  speaking  of  the  other 
day. 

I thank  you,  my  young  friend,  — was  my  reply,  — 
but  I must  say  something  better  than  that,  before  I 
could  pretend  to  fill  out  the  number. 

— The  schoolmistress  wanted  to  know  how  many  of 
these  sayings  there  were  on  record,  and  what,  and  by 
whom  said. 

— Why,  let  us  see,  — there  is  that  one  of  Benjamin 
Franklin,  ‘‘  the  great  Bostonian,”  after  whom  this  lad 
was  named.  To  be  sure,  he  said  a great  many  wise 
things,  — and  I don’t  feel  sure  he  did  n’t  borrow  this, 
— he  speaks  as  if  it  were  old.  But  then  he  applied  it 
so  neatly ! — 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  125 

“ He  that  has  once  done  you  a kindness  will  be 
more  ready  to  do  you  another  than  he  whom  you  your- 
self have  obliged.” 

Then  there  is  that  glorious  Epicurean  paradox,  ut- 
tered by  my  friend,  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his  flash- 
ing moments  : — 

“ Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dispense 
with  its  necessaries.” 

To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other  saying 
of  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men : — 

Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris.” 

— The  divinity-student  looked  grave  at  this,  but 
said  nothing. 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she  did  n’t 
think  the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  It  was  only  an- 
other way  of  saying,  Paris  is  a heavenly  place  after 
New  York  or  Boston. 

A j aunty-looking  person,  who  had  come  in  with  the 
young  fellow  they  call  John,  — evidently  a stranger,  — 
said  there  was  one  more  wise  man’s  saying  that  he  had 
heard ; it  was  about  our  place,  but  he  did  n’t  know 
who  said  it.  — A civil  curiosity  was  manifested  by  the 
company  to  hear  the  fourth  wise  saying.  I heard  him 
distinctly  whispering  to  the  young  fellow  who  brought 
him  to  dinner.  Shall  I tell  it  ? To  which  the  answer 
was.  Go  ahead!  — Well,  — he  said,  — this  was  what 
I heard : — 

‘‘  Boston  State-House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar  system. 
You  couldn’t  pry  that  out  of  a Boston  man  if  you 
had  the  tire  of  all  creation  straightened  out  for  a 
crowbar.” 

Sir,  — said  I,  — I am  gratifled  with  your  remark. 
It  expresses  with  pleasing  vivacity  that  which  I have 
sometimes  heard  uttered  with  malignant  dulness.  The 


126  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


satire  of  the  remark  is  essentially  true  of  Boston,  — 
and  of  all  other  considerable,  — and  inconsiderable,  — 
places  with  which  I have  had  the  privilege  of  being 
acquainted.  Cockneys  think  London  is  the  only  place 
in  the  world.  Frenchmen  — you  remember  the  line 
about  Paris,  the  Court,  the  W orld,  etc.  — I recollect 
well,  by  the  way,  a sign  in  that  city  which  ran  thus : 

H8tel  de  TUnivers  et  des  Etats  Unis ; ” and  as  Paris 
is  the  universe  to  a Frenchman,  of  course  the  United 
States  are  outside  of  it.  — See  Naples  and  then  die.’^ 
It  is  quite  as  bad  with  smaller  places.  I have  been 
about,  lecturing,  you  know,  and  have  found  the  follow- , 
ing  propositions  to  hold  true  of  all  of  them. 

1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly  through 
the  centre  of  each  and  every  town  or  city. 

2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed  since  its 
foundation,  it  is  affectionately  styled  by  the  inhabit- 
ants the  good  old  town  of  ” — (whatever  its  name 
may  happen  to  be.) 

3.  Every  collection  of  its  inhabitants  that  comes  to- 
gether to  listen  to  a stranger  is  invariably  declared  to 
be  a remarkably  intelligent  audience.’’ 

4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly  favorable 
to  longevity. 

5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent  little 
known  to  the  world.  (One  or  two  of  them,  you  may 
perhaps  chance  to  remember,  sent  short  pieces  to  the 

Pactolian  ” some  time  since,  which  were  respect- 
fully declined.”) 

Boston  is  just  like  other  places  of  its  size ; — only, 
perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish-market,  paid 
fire-department,  superior  monthly  publications,  and 
correct  habit  of  spelling  the  English  language,  it  has 
some  right  to  look  down  on  the  mob  of  cities.  I ’ll 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  127 

tell  you,  though,  if  you  want  to  know  it,  what  is  the 
real  offence  of  Boston.  It  drains  a large  water-shed 
of  its  intellect,  and  will  not  itself  be  drained.  If  it 
would  only  send  away  its  first-rate  men,  instead  of  its 
second-rate  ones  (no  offence  to  the  well-known  excep- 
tions, of  which  we  are  always  proud),  we  should  be 
spared  such  epigrammatic  remarks  as  that  which  the 
gentleman  has  quoted.  There  can  never  be  a real  me- 
tropolis in  this  country,  imtil  the  biggest  centre  can 
drain  the  lesser  ones  of  their  talent  and  wealth.  — I 
have  observed,  by  the  way,  that  the  people  who  really 
live  in  two  great  cities  are  by  no  means  so  jealous  of 
each  other  as  are  those  of  smaller  cities  situated  within 
the  intellectual  basin,  or  suction-range^  of  one  large 
one,  of  the  pretensions  of  any  other.  Don’t  you  see 
why  ? Because  their  promising  young  author  and  ris- 
ing lawyer  and  large  capitalist  have  been  drained  off  to 
the  neighboring  big  city,  — their  prettiest  girl  has 
been  exported  to  the  same  market ; all  their  ambition 
points  there,  and  all  their  thin  gilding  of  glory  comes 
from  there.  I hate  little  toad-eating  cities. 

— Would  I be  so  good  as  to  specify  any  particular 
example  ? — Oh,  — an  example  ? Did  you  ever  see  a 
bear-trap  ? Never  ? W ell,  should  n’t  you  like  to  see 
me  put  my  foot  into  one?  With  sentiments  of  the 
highest  consideration  I must  beg  leave  to  be  excused. 

Besides,  some  of  the  smaller  cities  are  charming.  If 
they  have  an  old  church  or  two,  a few  stately  man- 
sions of  former  grandees,  here  and  there  an  old  dwell- 
ing with  the  second  story  projecting  (for  the  conven- 
ience of  shooting  the  Indians  knocking  at  the  front- 
door with  their  tomahawks),  — if  they  have,  scattered 
about,  those  mighty  square  houses  built  something 
more  than  half  a century  ago,  and  standing  like  archi- 


128  THE  AUTOCKAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

tectural  boulders  dropped  by  the  former  diluvium  of 
wealth,  whose  refluent  wave  has  left  them  as  its  monu- 
ment, — if  they  have  gardens  with  elbowed  apple-trees 
that  push  their  branches  over  the  high  board-fence 
and  drop  their  fruit  on  the  side-walk,  — if  they  have 
a little  grass  in  the  side-streets,  enough  to  betoken 
quiet  without  proclaiming  decay,  — I think  I could  go 
to  pieces,  after  my  life’s  work  were  done,  in  one  of 
those  tranquil  places,  as  sweetly  as  in  any  cradle  that 
an  old  man  may  be  rocked  to  sleep  in.  I visit  such 
spots  always  with  inflnite  delight.  My  friend,  the  Poet, 
says,  that  rapidly  growing  towns  are  most  unfavor- 
able to  the  imaginative  and  reflective  faculties.  Let  a 
man  live  in  one  of  these  old  quiet  places,  he  says,  and 
the  wine  of  his  soul,  which  is  kept  thick  and  turbid  by 
the  rattle  of  busy  streets,  settles,  and,  as  you  hold  it  up, 
you  may  see  the  sun  through  it  by  day  and  the  stars 
by  night. 

— Do  I think  that  the  little  villages  have  the  con- 
ceit of  the  great  towns  ? — I don’t  believe  there  is 
much  difference.  You  know  how  they  read  Pope’s 
line  in  the  smallest  town  in  our  State  of  Massachu- 
setts ? — Well,  they  read  it 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  Hull 

Every  person’s  feelings  have  a front-door  and  a 
side-door  by  which  they  may  be  entered.  The  front- 
door is  on  the  street.  Some  keep  it  always  open ; 
some  keep  it  latched ; some,  locked ; some  bolted,  — 
with  a chain  that  will  let  you  peep  in,  but  not  get  in  ; 
and  some  nail  it  up,  so  that  nothing  can  pass  its 
threshold.  This  front-door  leads  into  a passage  which 
opens  into  an  ante-room,  and  this  into  the  interior 
apartments.  The  side-door  opens  at  once  into  the 
sacred  chambers. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  129 

There  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this  side- 
door.  This  is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a mother’s 
bosom.  Fathers,  brothers,  sisters,  and  friends,  often, 
but  by  no  means  so  universally,  have  duplicates  of  it. 
The  wedding-ring  conveys  a right  to  one  ; alas,  if  none 
is  given  with  it ! 

If  nature  or  accident  has  put  one  of  these  keys 
into  the  hands  of  a person  who  has  the  torturing  in- 
stinct, I can  only  solemnly  pronounce  the  words  that 
Justice  utters  over  its  doomed  victim,  — The  Lord 
ham  mercy  on  your  soul ! You  will  probably  go  mad 
within  a reasonable  time,  — or,  if  you  are  a man,  run 
off  and  die  with  your  head  on  a curb-stone,  in  Mel- 
bourne or  San  Francisco,  — or,  if  you  are  a woman, 
quarrel  and  break  your  heart,  or,  turn  into  a pale, 
jointed  petrifaction  that  moves  about  as  if  it  were 
alive,  or  play  some  real  life-tragedy  or  other. 

Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  trust  one  of  these  keys 
of  the  side-door.  The  fact  of  possessing  one  renders 
those  even  who  are  dear  to  you  very  terrible  at  times. 
You  can  keep  the  world  out  from  your  front-door,  or 
receive  visitors  only  when  you  are  ready  for  them  ; 
but  those  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  or  of  certain 
grades  of  intimacy,  can  come  in  at  the  side-door,  if 
they  will,  at  any  hour  and  in  any  mood.  Some  of 
them  have  a scale  of  your  whole  nervous  system,  and 
can  play  all  the  gamut  of  your  sensibilities  in  semi- 
tones, — touching  the  naked  nerve-pulps  as  a pianist 
strikes  the  keys  of  his  instrument.  I am  satisfied 
that  there  are  as  great  masters  of  this  nerve-playing 
as  Vieuxtemps  or  Thalberg  in  their  lines  of  perform- 
ance. Married  life  is  the  school  in  which  the  most 
accomplished  artists  in  this  department  are  found.  A 
delicate  woman  is  the  best  instrument ; she  has  such 
9 


130  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

a magnificent  compass  of  sensibilities  ! From  the  deep 
inward  moan  which  follows  pressure  on  the  great 
nerves  of  right,  to  the  sharp  cry  as  the  filaments  of 
taste  are  struck  with  a crashing  sweep,  is  a range 
which  no  other  instrument  possesses.  A few  exercises 
on  it  daily  at  home  fit  a man  wonderfully  for  his 
habitual  labors,  and  refresh  him  immensely  as  he  re- 
turns from  them.  No  stranger  can  get  a great  many 
notes  of  torture  out  of  a human  soul ; it  takes  one  that 
knows  it  well,  — parent,  child,  brother,  sister,  inti- 
mate. Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  give  a side-door 
key  ; too  many  have  them  already. 

— You  remember  the  old  story  of  the  tender-hearted 
man,  who  placed  a frozen  viper  in  his  bosom,  and  was 
stung  by  it  when  it  became  thawed  ? If  we  take  a 
cold-blooded  creature  into  our  bosom,  better  that  it 
should  sting  us  and  we  should  die  than  that  its  chill 
should  slowly  steal  into  our  hearts ; warm  it  we  never 
can ! I have  seen  faces  of  women  that  were  fair  to 
look  upon,  yet  one  could  see  that  the  icicles  were  form- 
ing round  these  women’s  hearts.  I knew  what  freez- 
ing image  lay  on  the  white  breasts  beneath  the  laces  ! 

A very  simple  intellectual  mechanism  answers  the 
necessities  of  friendship,  and  even  of  the  most  inti- 
mate relations  of  life.  If  a watch  tells  us  the  hour 
and  the  minute,  we  can  be  content  to  carry  it  about 
with  us  for  a life-time,  though  it  has  no  second-hand 
and  is  not  a repeater,  nor  a musical  watch,  — though 
it  is  not  enamelled  nor  jewelled,  — in  short,  though 
it  has  little  beyond  the  wheels  required  for  a trust- 
worthy instrument,  added  to  a good  face  and  a pair  of 
useful  hands.  The  more  wheels  there  are  in  a watch 
or  a brain,  the  more  trouble  they  are  to  take  care  of. 
The  movements  of  exaltation  which  belong  to  genius 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  131 


are  egotistic  by  their  very  nature.  A calm,  clear 
mind,  not  subject  to  the  spasms  and  crises  which  are 
so  often  met  with  in  creative  or  intensely  perceptive 
natures,  is  the  best  basis  for  love  or  friendship.  — Ob- 
serve, I am  talking  about  minds,  I won’t  say,  the 
more  intellect,  the  less  capacity  for  loving ; for  that 
would  do  wrong  to  the  understanding  and  reason  ; — 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  brain  often  runs 
away  with  the  heart’s  best  blood,  which  gives  the 
world  a few  pages  of  wisdom  or  sentiment  or  poetry, 
instead  of  making  one  other  heart  happy,  I have  no 
question. 

If  one’s  intimate  in  love  or  friendship  cannot  or  does 
not  share  all  one’s  intellectual  tastes  or  pursuits,  that 
is  a small  matter.  Intellectual  companions  can  be 
found  easily  in  men  and  books.  After  all,  if  we 
think  of  it,  most  of  the  world’s  loves  and  friendships 
have  been  between  people  that  could  not  read  nor 
spell. 

But  to  radiate  the  heat  of  the  affections  into  a clod, 
which  absorbs  all  that  is  poured  into  it,  but  never 
warms  beneath  the  sunshine  of  smiles  or  the  pressure 
of  hand  or  lip,  — this  is  the  great  martyrdom  of  sen- 
sitive beings,  — most  of  all  in  that  perpetual  auto  da  fe 
where  young  womanhood  is  the  sacrifice. 

— You  noticed,  perhaps,  what  I just  said  about  the 
loves  and  friendships  of  illiterate  persons, — that  is,  of 
the  human  race,  with  a few  exceptions  here  and  there. 
I like  books,  — I was  born  and  bred  among  them,  and 
have  the  easy  feeling,  when  I get  into  their  presence, 
that  a stable-boy  has  among  horses.  I don’t  think  I 
undervalue  them  either  as  companions  or  instructors. 
But  I can’t  help  remembering  that  the  world’s  great 
men  have  not  commonly  been  great  scholars,  nor  its 


132  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


great  scholars  great  men.  The  Hebrew  patriarchs 
had  small  libraries,  I think,  if  any ; yet  they  represent 
to  our  imaginations  a very  complete  idea  of  manhood, 
and,  I think,  if  we  could  ask  in  Abraham  to  dine  with 
us  men  of  letters  next  Saturday,  we  should  feel  hon- 
ored by  his  company. 

What  I wanted  to  say  about  books  is  this  : that 
there  are  times  in  which  every  active  mind  feels  itself 
above  any  and  all  human  books. 

— I think  a man  must  have  a good  opinion  of  him- 
self, Sir, — said  the  divinity-student,  — who  should 
feel  himself  above  Shakspeare  at  any  time. 

My  young  friend,  — I replied,  — the  man  who  is 
never  conscious  of  a state  of  feeling  or  of  intellectual 
effort  entirely  beyond  expression  by  any  form  of 
words  whatsoever  is  a mere  creature  of  language.  I 
can  hardly  believe  there  are  any  such  men.  Why 
think  for  a moment  of  the  power  of  music.  The 
nerves  that  make  us  alive  to  it  spread  out  (so  the 
Professor  tells  me)  in  the  most  sensitive  region  of  the 
marrow,  just  where  it  is  widening  to  run  upwards 
into  the  hemispheres.  It  has  its  seat  in  the  region  of 
sense  rather  than  of  thought.  Yet  it  produces  a con- 
tinuous and,  as  it  were,  logical  sequence  of  emotional 
and  intellectual  changes ; but  how  different  from 
trains  of  thought  proper!  how  entirely  beyond  the 
reach  of  symbols!  — Think  of  human  passions  as  com- 
pared with  all  phrases ! Did  you  ever  hear  of  a man’s 
growing  lean  by  the  reading  of  ‘‘Romeo  and  Juliet,” 
or  blowing  his  brains  out  because  Desdemona  was  ma- 
ligned ? There  are  a good  many  symbols,  even,  that 
are  more  expressive  than  words.  I remember  a young 
wife  who  had  to  part  with  her  husband  for  a time. 
She  did  not  write  a mournful  poem ; indeed,  she  was 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  133 


a silent  person,  and  perhaps  hardly  said  a word  about 
it ; but  she  quietly  turned  of  a deep  orange  color  with 
jaundice.  A great  many  people  in  this  world  have 
but  one  form  of  rhetoric  for  their  profoundest  experi- 
ences, — namely,  to  waste  away  and  die.  When  a 
man  can  read^  his  paroxysm  of  feeling  is  passing. 
When  he  can  read^  his  thought  has  slackened  its 
hold.  — You  talk  about  reading  Shakspeare,  using 
him  as  an  expression  for  the  highest  intellect,  and  you 
wonder  that  any  common  person  should  be  so  pre- 
sumptuous as  to  suppose  his  thought  can  rise  above 
the  text  which  lies  before  him.  But  think  a moment. 
A child’s  reading  of  Shakspeare  is  one  thing,  and 
Coleridge’s  or  Schlegel’s  reading  of  him  is  another. 
The  saturation-point  of  each  mind  differs  from  that  of 
every  other.  But  I think  it  is  as  true  for  the  small 
mind  which  can  only  take  up  a little  as  for  the  great 
one  which  takes  up  much,  that  the  suggestive  trains 
of  thought  and  feeling  ought  always  to  rise  above  — 
not  the  author,  but  the  reader’s  mental  version  of  the 
author,  whoever  he  may  be. 

I think  most  readers  of  Shakspeare  sometimes  find 
themselves  thrown  into  exalted  mental  conditions  like 
those  produced  by  music.  Then  they  may  drop  the 
book,  to  pass  at  once  into  the  region  of  thought  with- 
out words.  We  may  happen  to  be  very  dull  folks, 
you  and  I,  and  probably  are,  unless  there  is  some  par- 
ticular reason  to  suppose  the  contrary.  But  we  get 
glimpses  now  and  then  of  a sphere  of  spiritual  possi- 
bilities, where  we,  dull  as  we  are  now,  may  sail  in  vast 
circles  round  the  largest  compass  of  earthly  intelli- 
gences. 

— 1 confess  there  are  times  when  I feel  like  the 
friend  I mentioned  to  you  some  time  ago, — I hate 


134  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  very  sight  of  a book.  Sometimes  it  becomes  al- 
most a physical  necessity  to  talk  out  what  is  in  the 
mind,  before  putting  anything  else  into  it.  It  is  very 
bad  to  have  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  were  meant 
to  come  out  in  talk,  strike  in^  as  they  say  of  some 
complaints  that  ought  to  show  outwardly. 

I always  believed  in  life  rather  than  in  books.  I 
suppose  every  day  of  earth,  with  its  himdred  thou- 
sand deaths  and  something  more  of  births,  — with  its 
loves  and  hates,  its  triumphs  and  defeats,  its  pangs 
and  blisses,  has  more  of  humanity  in  it  than  all  the 
books  that  were  ever  written,  put  together.  I believe 
the  flowers  growing  at  this  moment  send  up  more  fra- 
grance to  heaven  than  was  ever  exhaled  from  all  the 
essences  ever  distilled. 

— Don’t  I read  up  various  matters  to  talk  about  at 
this  table  or  elsewhere?  — No,  that  is  the  last  thing  I 
would  do.  I will  tell  you  my  rule.  Talk  about  those 
subjects  you  have  had  long  in  your  mind,  and  listen 
to  what  others  say  about  subjects  you  have  studied 
but  recently.  Knowledge  and  timber  should  n’t  be 
much  used  till  they  are  seasoned. 

— Physiologists  and  metaphysicians  have  had  their 
attention  turned  a good  deal  of  late  to  the  automatic 
and  involuntary  actions  of  the  mind.  Put  an  idea 
into  your  intelligence  and  leave  it  there  an  hour,  a 
day,  a year,  without  ever  having  occasion  to  refer  to 
it.  When,  at  last,  you  return  to  it,  you  do  not  And  it 
as  it  was  when  acquired.  It  has  domiciliated  itself, 
so  to  speak,  — become  at  home,  — entered  into  rela- 
tions with  your  other  thoughts,  and  integrated  itself 
with  the  whole  fabric  of  the  mind.  — Or  take  a simple 
and  familiar  example ; Dr.  Carpenter  has  adduced  it. 
You  forget  a name,  in  conversation,  — go  on  talking, 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  135 

without  making  any  effort  to  recall  it,  — and  presently 
the  mind  evolves  it  by  its  own  involuntary  and  uncon- 
scious action,  while  you  were  pursuing  another  train 
of  thought,  and  the  name  rises  of  itself  to  your  lips. 

There  are  some  curious  observations  I should  like 
to  make  about  the  mental  machinery,  but  I think  we 
are  getting  rather  didactic. 

— I should  be  gratified,  if  Benjamin  Franklin 
would  let  me  know  something  of  his  progress  in  the 
French  language.  I rather  liked  that  exercise  he  read 
us  the  other  day,  though  I must  confess  I should 
hardly  dare  to  translate  it,  for  fear  some  people  in  a 
remote  city  where  I once  lived  might  think  I was 
drawing  their  portraits. 

— Yes,  Paris  is  a famous  place  for  societies.  I 
don’t  know  whether  the  piece  I mentioned  from  the 
French  author  was  intended  simply  as  Natural  His- 
tory, or  whether  there  was  not  a little  malice  in  his 
description.  At  any  rate,  when  I gave  my  translation 
to  B.  F.  to  turn  back  again  into  French,  one  reason 
was  that  I thought  it  would  sound  a little  bald  in 
English,  and  some  people  might  think  it  was  meant 
to  have  some  local  bearing  or  other,  — which  the 
author,  of  course,  did  n’t  mean,  inasmuch  as  he  could 
not  be  acquainted  with  anything  on  this  side  of  the 
water. 

[The  above  remarks  were  addressed  to  the  school- 
mistress, to  whom  I handed  the  paper  after  looking  it 
over.  The  divinity-student  came  and  read  over  her 
shoulder,  — very  curious,  apparently,  but  his  eyes  wan- 
dered, I thought.  Fancying  that  her  breathing  was 
somewhat  hurried  and  high,  or  thoracic^  as  my  friend, 
the  Professor,  calls  it,  I watched  her  a little  more 
closely.  — It  is  none  of  my  business.  — After  all,  it  is 


136  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


the  imponderables  "that  move  the  world,  — heat,  elec- 
tricity, love.  — Hdbet  .^] 

This  is  the  piece  that  Benjamin  Franklin  made  into 
boarding-school  French,  such  as  you  see  here;  don’t 
expect  too  much ; — the  mistakes  give  a relish  to  it,  I 
think. 

LES  SOCIfiTfilS  POLYPHYSIOPHILOSOPHIQUES. 

Ces  Societes  Ik  sont  une  Institution  pour  suppleer  aux  besoins 
d’esprit  et  de  coeur  de  ces  individus  quiont  survecu  k leurs  emo- 
tions a Pegard  du  beau  sexe,  et  qui  n’ont  pas  la  distraction  de 
Phabitude  de  boire. 

Pour  devenir  membre  d*une  de  ces  Societes,  on  doit  avoir  le 
moins  de  cbeveux  possible.  S’il  y en  reste  plusieurs  qui  resistent 
aux  depilatoires  naturelles  et  autres,  on  doit  avoir  quelques  con- 
naissances,  n’importe  dans  quel  genre.  Des  le  moment  qu’on 
ouvre  la  porte  de  la  Societe,  on  a un  grand  interet  dans  toutes 
les  choses  dont  on  ne  salt  rien.  Ainsi,  un  microscopiste  demontre 
un  nouveau  flexor  du  tarse  d’un  melolontha  vulgaris,  Douze  sa- 
vans  improvises,  portans  des  besides,  et  qui  ne  connaissent  rien 
des  insectes,  si  ce  n^est  les  morsures  du  culex^  se  precipitent  sur 
Pinstrument,  et  voient,  une  grande  bulle  d’air,  dont  ils  s’emer- 
veillent  avec  effusion.  Ce  qui  est  un  spectacle  plein  d instruc- 
tion, — pour  ceux  qui  ne  sont  pas  de  ladite  Societe.  Tons  les 
membres  regardent  les  cbimistes  en  particulier  avec  un  air  d’in- 
telligence  parfaite  pendant  qu’ils  prouvent  dans  un  discours 
d’une  demiheure  que  0®  C®  etc.  font  quelque  chose  qui 

n’est  bonne  k rien,  mais  qui  probablement  a une  odeur  tres 
desagreable,  selon  Phabitude  des  produits  chimiques.  Apres  celk 
vient  un  mathematicien  qui  vous  bourre  avec  des  a -[-  & et  vous 
rapporte  enfin  un  x-\-y^  dont  vous  n’avez  pas  besoin  et  qui  ne 
change  nullement  vos  relations  avec  la  vie.  Un  naturaliste  vous 
parle  des  formations  speciales  des  animaux  excessivement  incon- 
nus,  dont  vous  n’avez  jamais  soup9onne  Pexistence.  Ainsi  il 
vous  decrit  les  follicules  de  V appendix  vermiformis  d’un  dzig- 
guetai,  Vous  ne  savez  pas  ce  que  c’est  qu’un  follicule,  Vous 
ne  savez  pas  ce  que  c’est  qu’un  appendix  vermiformis,  Vous 
n’avez  jamais  entendu  parler  du  dziggueiai,  Ainsi  vous  gagnez 
toutes  ces  connaissances  k la  fois,  qui  s’attachent  k votre  esprit 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  137 


comme  I’eau  adhere  aux  plumes  d’un  canard.  On  connait  toutes 
les  langues  ex  officio  en  devenant  membre  d’une  de  ces  Societes. 
Ainsi  quand  on  entend  lire  un  Essai  sur  les  dialectes  Tchut- 
chiens,  on  comprend  tout  cela  de  suite,  et  s'instruit  enorme- 
ment. 

II  y a deux  especes  d’individus  qu’on  trouve  toujours  a ces 
Societes  : Le  membre  k questions;  2®  Le  membre  k “ By- 

laws.” 

La  question  est  une  specialite.  Celui  qui  en  fait  metier  ne  fait 
jamais  des  reponses.  La  question  est  une  maniere  tres  commode 
de  dire  les  choses  suivantes:  ‘‘Me  voila!  Je  ne  suis  pas  fossil, 
moi, — je  respire  encore!  J’ai  des  idees,  — voyez  mon  intel- 
ligence! Vous  ne  croyiez  pas,  vous  autres,  que  je  savais  quelque 
chose  de  cela!  Ah,  nous  avons  un  peu  de  sagacite,  voyez  vous! 
Nous  ne  sommes  nullement  la  bete  qu'on  pense!  ” — Le  faiseur 
de  questions  donne  peu  d^ attention  aux  reponses  qu^on  fait;  ce 
n"* est  pas  la  dans  sa  specialite, 

Le  membre  a “ Bylaws  ” est  le  bouchon  de  toutes  les  emotions 
mousseuses  et  genereuses  qui  se  montrent  dans  la  Societe.  C’est 
un  empereur  manque,  — un  tyran  a la  troisieme  trituration. 
C’est  un  esprit  dur,  borne,  exact,  grand  dans  les  petitesses,  petit 
dans  les  grandeurs,  selon  le  mot  du  grand  Jefferson.  On  ne 
Taime  pas  dans  la  Societe,  mais  on  le  respecte  et  on  le  craint. 
II  n’y  a qu’un  mot  pour  ce  membre  audessus  de  “ Bylaws.”  Ce 
mot  est  pour  lui  ce  que  I’Om  est  aux  Hindous.  C’est  sa  religion; 
il  n’y  a rien  audelk.  Ce  mot  Ik  c’est  la  Constitution! 

Lesdites  Societes  publient  des  feuilletons  de  terns  en  terns. 
On  les  trouve  abandonnes  k sa  porte,  nus  comme  des  enfans 
nouveaunes,  faute  de  membrane  cutanee,  ou  meme  papyracee. 
Si  on  aime  la  botanique,  on  y trouve  une  memoire  sur  les 
coquilles  ; si  on  fait  des  etudes  zoologiques,  on  trouve  un  grand 
tas  de  q'^  — 1,  ce  qui  doit  etre  infiniment  plus  commode  que 
les  encyclopedies.  Ainsi  il  est  clair  comme  la  metaphysique 
qu’on  doit  devenir  membre  d’une  Societe  telle  que  nous  de- 
crivons. 


Recede  pour  le  Repilatoire  PliysiopMlosopliique, 

Chaux  vive  lb.  ss.  Eau  bouillante  Oj. 

Depilez  avec.  Polissez  ensuite. 

— I told  the  boy  that  his  translation  into  French 


138  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

was  creditable  to  him ; and  some  of  the  company  wish- 
ing to  hear  what  there  was  in  the  piece  that  made  me 
smile,  I turned  it  into  English  for  them,  as  well  as  I 
could,  on  the  spot. 

The  landlady’s  daughter  seemed  to  be  much  amused 
by  the  idea  that  a depilatory  could  take  the  place  of 
literary  and  scientific  accomplishments  ; she  wanted 
me  to  print  the  piece,  so  that  she  might  send  a copy  of 
it  to  her  cousin  in  Mizzourah  ; she  did  n’t  think  he ’d 
have  to  do  anything  to  the  outside  of  his  head  to  get 
into  any  of  the  societies  ; he  had  to  wear  a wig  once, 
when  he  played  a part  in  a tabuUo. 

No,  — said  I,  — I should  n’t  think  of  printing  that 
in  English.  I ’ll  tell  you  why.  . As  soon  as  you  get  a 
few  thousand  people  together  in  a town,  there  is  some- 
body that  every  sharp  thing  you  say  is  sure  to  hit. 
What  if  a thing  was  written  in  Paris  or  in  Pekin  ? — 
that  makes  no  difference.  Everybody  in  those  cities, 
or  almost  everybody,  has  his  counterpart  here,  and  in 
all  large  places.  — You  never  studied  averages^  as  I 
have  had  occasion  to. 

I ’ll  tell  you  how  I came  to  know  so  much  about  av- 
erages. There  was  one  season  when  I was  lecturing, 
commonly,  five  evenings  in  the  week,  through  most 
of  the  lecturing  period.  I soon  found,  as  most  speak- 
ers do,  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  work  one  lecture  than 
to  keep  several  in  hand. 

— Don’t  you  get  sick  to  death  of  one  lecture  ? — 
said  the  landlady’s  daughter,  — who  had  a new  dress 
on  that  day,  and  was  in  spirits  for  conversation. 

I was  going  to  talk  about  averages,  — I said,  — but 
I have  no  objection  to  telling  you  about  lectures,  to 
begin  with. 

A new  lecture  always  has  a certain  excitement  con- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  139 

nected  with  its  delivery.  One  thinks  well  of  it,  as  of 
most  things  fresh  from  his  mind.  After  a few  deliv- 
eries of  it,  one  gets  tired  and  then  disgusted  with  its 
repetition.  Go  on  delivering  it,  and  the  disgust 
passes  off,  until,  after  one  has  repeated  it  a hundred 
or  a himdred  and  fifty  times,  he  rather  enjoys  the 
hundred  and  first  or  hundred  and  fifty-first  time,  be- 
fore a new  audience.  But  this  is  on  one  condition,  — 
that  he  never  lays  the  lecture  down  and  lets  it  cool. 
If  he  does,  there  comes  on  a loathing  for  it  which  is 
intense,  so  that  the  sight  of  the  old  battered  manu- 
script is  as  bad  as  sea-sickness. 

A new  lecture  is  just  like  any  other  new  tool.  W e 
use  it  for  a while  with  pleasure.  Then  it  blisters  our 
hands,  and  we  hate  to  touch  it.  By  and  by  our  hands 
get  callous,  and  then  we  have  no  longer  any  sensitive- 
' ness  about  it.  But  if  we  give  it  up,  the  calluses  dis- 
appear ; and  if  we  meddle  with  it  again,  we  miss  the 
novelty  and  get  the  blisters.  — The  story  is  often 
quoted  of  Whitefield,  that  he  said  a sermon  was  good 
for  nothing  until  it  had  been  preached  forty  times. 
A lecture  does  n’t  begin  to  be  old  until  it  has  passed 
its  hundredth  delivery ; and  some,  I think,  have  doub- 
led, if  not  quadrupled,  that  number.  These  old  lec- 
tures are  a man’s  best,  commonly ; they  improve  by  age, 
also,  — like  the  pipes,  fiddles,  and  poems  I told  you 
of  the  other  day.  One  learns  to  make  the  most  of 
their  strong  points  and  to  carry  off  their  weak  ones, — 
to  take  out  the  really  good  things  which  don’t  tell  on 
the  audience,  and  put  in  cheaper  things  that  do.  All 
this  degrades  him,  of  course,  but  it  improves  the  lec- 
ture for  general  delivery.  A thoroughly  popular  lec- 
ture ought  to  have  nothing  in  it  which  five  hundred 
people  cannot  all  take  in  a flash,  just  as  it  is  uttered. 


140  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— No,  indeed,  — I should  be  very  sorry  to  say  any- 
thing disrespectful  of  audiences.  I have  been  kindly 
treated  by  a great  many,  and  may  occasionally  face 
one  hereafter.  But  I tell  you  the  average  intellect 
of  five  hundred  persons,  taken  as  they  come,  is  not 
very  high.  It  may  be  sound  and  safe,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  but  it  is  not  very  rapid  or  profound.  A lecture 
ought  to  be  something  which  all  can  understand,  about 
something  which  interests  everybody.  I think,  that, 
if  any  experienced  lecturer  gives  you  a different  ac- 
count from  this,  it  will  probably  be  one  of  those  elo- 
quent or  forcible  speakers  who  hold  an  audience  by 
the  charm  of  their  manner,  whatever  they  talk  about, 
— even  when  they  don’t  talk  very  well. 

But  an  average^  which  was  what  I meant  to  speak 
about,  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  subjects  of  ob- 
servation and  study.  It  is  awful  in  its  uniformity,  in 
its  automatic  necessity  of  action.  Two  communities 
of  ants  or  bees  are  exactly  alike  in  all  their  actions,  so 
far  as  we  can  see.  Two  lyceum  assemblies,  of  five 
hundred  each,  are  so  nearly  alike,  that  they  are  abso- 
lutely undistinguishable  in  many  cases  by  any  definite 
mark,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  place  and  time  by 
which  one  can  tell  the  “ remarkably  intelligent  audi- 
ence ” of  a town  in  New  York  or  Ohio  from  one  in 
any  New  England  town  of  similar  size.  Of  course,  if 
any  principle  of  selection  has  come  in,  as  in  those 
special  associations  of  young  men  which  are  common 
in  cities,  it  deranges  the  uniformity  of  the  assemblage. 
But  let  there  be  no  such  interfering  circumstances, 
and  one  knows  pretty  well  even  the  look  the  audience 
will  have,  before  he  goes  in.  Front  seats:  a few  old 
folks,  — shiny-headed,  — slant  up  best  ear  towards 
the  speaker,  — drop  off  asleep  after  a while,  when  the 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKPAST-TABLE.  141 

air  begins  to  get  a little  narcotic  with  carbonic  acid. 
Bright  women’s  faces,  young  and  middle-aged,  a little 
behind  these,  but  toward  the  front,  — (pick  out  the 
best,  and  lecture  mainly  to  that.)  Here  and  there  a 
countenance,  sharp  and  scholarlike,  and  a dozen  pretty 
female  ones  sprinkled  about.  An  indefinite  number 
of  pairs  of  young  people,  — happy,  but  not  always 
very  attentive.  Boys,  in  the  background,  more  or  less 
quiet.  Dull  faces,  here,  there, — in  how  many  places ! 
I don’t  say  dull  people^  but  faces  without  a ray  of 
sympathy  or  a movement  of  expression.  They  are 
what  kill  the  lecturer.  These  negative  faces  with 
their  vacuous  eyes  and  stony  lineaments  pump  and 
suck  the  warm  soul  out  of  him ; — that  is  the  chief 
reason  why  lecturers  grow  so  pale  before  the  season  is 
over.  They  render  latent  any  amount  of  vital  caloric; 
they  act  on  our  minds  as  those  cold-blooded  creatures 
I was  talking  about  act  on  our  hearts. 

Out  of  all  these  inevitable  elements  the  audience  is 
generated,  — a great  compound  vertebrate,  as  much 
like  fifty  others  you  have  seen  as  any  two  mammals  of 
the  same  species  are  like  each  other.  Each  audience 
laughs,  and  each  cries,  in  just  the  same  places  of  your 
lecture ; that  is,  if  you  make  one  laugh  or  cry,  you 
make  all.  Even  those  little  indescribable  movements 
which  a lecturer  takes  cognizance  of,  just  as  a driver 
notices  his  horse’s  cocking  his  ears,  are  sure  to  come 
in  exactly  the  same  place  of  your  lecture  always.  I 
declare  to  you,  that  as  the  monk  said  about  the  pic- 
ture in  the  convent,  — that  he  sometimes  thought  the 
living  tenants  were  the  shadows,  and  the  painted  fig- 
ures the  realities,  — I have  sometimes  felt  as  if  I were 
a wandering  spirit,  and  this  great  unchanging  multi- 
vertebrate which  I faced  night  after  night  was  one 


142  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ever-listening  animal,  whicli  writhed  along  after  me 
wherever  I fled,  and  coiled  at  my  feet  every  evening, 
turning  up  to  me  the  same  sleepless  eyes  which  I 
thought  I had  closed  with  my  last  drowsy  incantation ! 

— Oh  yes ! A thousand  kindly  and  courteous  acts, 
— a thousand  faces  that  melted  individually  out  of  my 
recollection  as  the  April  snow  melts,  but  only  to  steal 
away  and  And  the  beds  of  flowers  whose  roots  are 
memory,  but  which  blossom  in  poetry  and  dreams.  I 
am  not  ungrateful,  nor  unconscious  of  all  the  good 
feeling  and  intelligence  everywhere  to  be  met  with 
through  the  vast  parish  to  which  the  lecturer  minis- 
ters. But  when  I set  forth,  leading  a string  of  my 
mind’s  daughters  to  market,  as  the  country-folk  fetch 
in  their  strings  of  horses  — Pardon  me,  that  was  a 
coarse  fellow  who  sneered  at  the  sympathy  wasted  on 
an  unhappy  lecturer,  as  if,  because  he  was  decently 
paid  for  his  services,  he  had  therefore  sold  his  sen- 
sibilities. — Family  men  get  dreadfully  homesick.  In 
the  remote  and  bleak  village  the  heart  returns  to  the 
red  blaze  of  the  logs  in  one’s  fireplace  at  home. 

“ There  are  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play,’*  — 

if  he  owns  any  youthful  savages.  — No,  the  world  has 
a million  roosts  for  a man,  but  only  one  nest. 

— It  is  a fine  thing  to  be  an  oracle  to  which  an  ap- 
peal is  always  made  in  all  discussions.  The  men  of 
facts  wait  their  turn  in  grim  silence,  with  that  slight 
tension  about  the  nostrils  which  the  consciousness  of 
carrying  a ‘‘  settler  ” in  the  form  of  a fact  or  a re- 
volver gives  the  individual  thus  armed.  When  a per- 
son is  really  full  of  information,  and  does  not  abuse  it 
to  crush  conversation,  his  part  is  to  that  of  the  real 
talkers  what  the  instrumental  accompaniment  is  in  a 
trio  or  quartette  of  vocalists. 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  143 

— What  do  I mean  by  the  real  talkers  ? — Why, 
the  people  with  fresh  ideas,  of  course,  and  plenty  of 
good  warm  words  to  dress  them  in.  Facts  always 
yield  the  place  of  honor  in  conversation,  to  thoughts 
about  facts  ; but  if  a false  note  is  uttered,  down  comes 
the  finger  on  the  key  and  the  man  of  facts  asserts  his 
true  dignity.  I have  known  three  of  these  men  of 
facts,  at  least,  who  were  always  formidable,  — and  one 
of  them  was  tyrannical. 

— Yes,  a man  sometimes  makes  a grand  appear- 
ance on  a particular  occasion ; but  these  men  knew 
something  about  almost  everything,  and  never  made 
mistakes.  — He?  Yeneer^  in  first-rate  style.  The 
mahogany  scales  off  now  and  then  in  spots,  and  then 

you  see  the  cheap  light  stuff’.  — I found very  fine 

in  conversational  information,  the  other  day  when  we 
were  in  company.  The  talk  ran  upon  mountains.  He 
was  wonderfully  well  acquainted  with  the  leading 
facts  about  the  Andes,  the  Apennines,  and  the  Ap- 
palachians ; he  had  nothing  in  particular  to  say  about 
Ararat,  Ben  Nevis,  and  various  other  mountains  that 
were  mentioned.  By  and  by  some  Revolutionary  anec- 
dote came  up,  and  he  showed  singular  familiarity  with 
the  lives  of  the  Adamses,  and  gave  many  details  re- 
lating to  Major  Andre.  A point  of  Natural  History 
being  suggested,  he  gave  an  excellent  account  of  the 
air-bladder  of  fishes.  He  was  very  full  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  agriculture,  but  retired  from  the  conversation 
when  horticulture  was  introduced  in  the  discussion.  So 
he  seemed  well  acquainted  with  the  geology  of  anthra- 
cite, but  did  not  pretend  to  know  anything  of  other 
kinds  of  coal.  There  was  something  so  odd  about  the 
extent  and  limitations  of  his  knowledge,  that  I sus- 
pected all  at  once  what  might  be  the  meaning  of  it, 


144  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

and  waited  till  I got  an  opportunity.  — Have  you 
seen  the  New  American  Cyclopaedia  ? ” said  I.  — I 
have,  he  replied ; I received  an  early  copy.  — How 
far  does  it  go?  — He  turned  red,  and  answered,  — 
To  Araguay.  — Oh,  said  I to  myself,  — not  quite  so 
far  as  Ararat ; — that  is  the  reason  he  knew  nothing 
about  it ; but  he  must  have  read  all  the  rest  straight 
through,  and,  if  he  can  remember  what  is  in  this 
volume  until  he  has  read  all  those  which  are  to  come, 
he  will  know  more  than  I ever  thought  he  would. 

Since  I had  this  experience,  I hear  that  somebody 
else  has  related  a similar  story.  I did  n’t  borrow  it 
for  all  that.  — I made  a comparison  at  table  some 
time  since,  which  has  often  been  quoted  and  received 
many  compliments.  It  was  that  of  the  mind  of  a 
bigot  to  the  pupil  of  the  eye  ; the  more  light  you  pour 
on  it,  the  more  it  contracts.  The  simile  is  a very  ob- 
vious, and,  I suppose  I may  now  say,  a happy  one  ; for 
it  has  just  been  shown  me  that  it  occurs  in  a Preface 
to  certain  Political  Poems  of  Thomas  Moore’s,  pub- 
lished long  before  my  remark  was  repeated.  When  a 
person  of  fair  character  for  literary  honesty  uses  an 
image  such  as  another  has  employed  before  him,  the 
presumption  is,  that  he  has  struck  upon  it  independent- 
ly, or  unconsciously  recalled  it,  supposing  it  his  own. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell,  in  a great  many  cases, 
whether  a comparison  which  suddenly  suggests  itself 
is  a new  conception  or  a recollection.  I told  you  the 
other  day  that  I never  wrote  a line  of  verse  that  seemed 
to  me  comparatively  good,  but  it  appeared  old  at  once, 
and  often  as  if  it  had  been  borrowed.  But  I confess  I 
never  suspected  the  above  comparison  of  being  old,  ex- 
cept from  the  fact  of  its  obviousness.  It  is  proper, 
however,  that  I proceed  by  a formal  instrument  to  re- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  145 

linquish  all  claim  to  any  property  in  an  idea  given  to 
the  world  at  about  the  time  when  I had  just  joined  the 
class  in  which  Master  Thomas  Moore  was  then  a some- 
what advanced  scholar. 

I,  therefore,  in  full  possession  of  my  native  honesty, 
but  knowing  the  liability  of  all  men  to  be  eleeted  to 
public  office,  and  for  that  reason  feeling  uncertain  how 
soon  I may  be  in  danger  of  losing  it,  do  hereby  re- 
nounce all  claim  to  being  considered  first  person 
who  gave  utterance  to  a certain  simile  or  comparison 
referred  to  in  the  accompanying  documents,  and  relat- 
ing to  the  pupil  of  the  eye  on  the  one  part  and  the 
mind  of  the  bigot  on  the  other.  I hereby  relinquish 
all  glory  and  profit,  and  especially  all  claims  to  letters 
from  autograph  collectors,  founded  upon  my  supposed 
property  in  the  above  comparison,  — knowing  well, 
that,  according  to  the  laws  of  literature,  they  who 
speak  first  hold  the  fee  of  the  thing  said.  I do  also 
agree  that  all  Editors  of  Cyclopaedias  and  Biographical 
Dictionaries,  all  Publishers  of  Reviews  and  Papers, 
and  all  Critics  writing  therein,  shall  be  at  liberty  to 
retract  or  qualify  any  opinion  predicated  on  the  sup- 
position that  I was  the  sole  and  undisputed  author  of 
the  above  comparison.  But,  inasmuch  as  I do  affirm 
that  the  comparison  aforesaid  was  uttered  by  me  in 
the  firm  belief  that  it  was  new  and  wholly  my  own, 
and  as  I have  good  reason  to  think  that  I had  never 
seen  or  heard  it  when  first  expressed  by  me,  and  as  it 
is  well  known  that  different  persons  may  indepem 
dently  utter  the  same  idea,  — as  is  evinced  by  that 
familiar  line  from  Donatus, 

“ Pereant  illi  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerunt,^’  — 

now,  therefore,  I do  request  by  this  instrument  that 
10 


146  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


all  well-disposed  persons  will  abstain  from  asserting  or 
implying  that  I am  open  to  any  accusation  whatsoever 
touching  the  said  comparison,  and,  if  they  have  so  as- 
serted or  implied,  that  they  will  have  the  manliness 
forthwith  to  retract  the  same  assertion  or  insinuation. 

I think  few  persons  have  a greater  disgust  for 
plagiarism  than  myself.  If  I had  even  suspected  that 
the  idea  in  question  was  borrowed,  I should  have  dis- 
claimed originality,  or  mentioned  the  coincidence,  as  I 
once  did  in  a case  where  I had  happened  to  hit  on  an 
idea  of  Swift’s.  — But  what  shall  I do  about  these 
verses  I was  going  to  read  you?  I am  afraid  that 
half  mankind  would  accuse  me  of  stealing  their 
thoughts,  if  I printed  them.  I am  convinced  that 

several  of  you,  especially  if  you  are  getting  a little  on 
in  life,  will  recognize  some  of  these  sentiments  as  hav- 
ing passed  through  your  consciousness  at  some  time.  I 
can’t  help  it,  — it  is  too  late  now.  The  verses  are  writ- 
ten, and  you  must  have  them.  Listen,  then,  and  you 
shall  hear 

WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK. 

That  age  was  older  once  than  now 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 

Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  “ good  old  days/’ 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 

And  autumns  with  a softer  haze. 

That  — mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 

The  “ best  of  women  ” each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown  ! 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  147 


That  hut  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 

And  hut  for  that  our  lives  were  blest ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene’er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain, 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  “a  peculiar  case.” 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 

And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o’er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 

Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows 
And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door. 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh 
“ Ah,  had  I but  one  thousand  more  ! ” 

That  weakness  smoothed  the  path  of  sin, 
In  half  the  slips  our  youth  has  known ; 

And  whatsoe’er  its  blame  has  been, 

That  Mercy  flowers  on  faults  outgrown. 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O’erhanging  truth’s  eternal  flow. 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  ive  thinky 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  loe  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read. 

All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above. 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it  : God  is  Love  ! 


148  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

VII. 

[This  particular  record  is  noteworthy  principally 
for  containing  a paper  by  my  friend,  the  Professor, 
with  a poem  or  two  annexed  or  intercalated.  I would 
suggest  to  young  persons  that  they  should  pass  over 
it  for  the  present,  and  read,  instead  of  it,  that  story 
about  the  young  man  who  was  in  love  with  the  young 
lady,  and  in  great  trouble  for  something  like  nine 
pages,  but  happily  married  on  the  tenth  page  or  there- 
abouts, which,  I take  it  for  granted,  will  be  contained 
in  the  periodical  where  this  is  found,  unless  it  differ 
from  all  other  publications  of  the  kind.  Perhaps,  if 
such  young  people  will  lay  the  number  aside,  and  take 
it  up  ten  years,  or  a little  more,  from  the  present  time, 
they  may  find  something  in  it  for  their  advantage. 
They  can’t  possibly  understand  it  all  now.] 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  began  talking  with  me 
one  day  in  a dreary  sort  of  way.  I could  n’t  get  at 
the  difficulty  for  a good  while,  but  at  last  it  turned 
out  that  somebody  had  been  calling  him  an  old  man. 
— He  did  n’t  mind  his  students  calling  him  the  old 
man,  he  said.  That  was  a technical  expression,  and 
he  thought  that  he  remembered  hearing  it  applied  to 
himself  when  he  was  about  twenty-five.  It  may  be 
considered  as  a familiar  and  sometimes  endearing  ap- 
pellation. An  Irishwoman  calls  her  husband  the  old 
man,”  and  he  returns  the  caressing  expression  by 
speaking  of  her  as  the  old  woman.”  But  now,  said 
he,  just  suppose  a case  like  one  of  these.  A young 
stranger  is  overheard  talking  of  you  as  a very  nice  old 
gentleman.  A friendly  and  genial  critic  speaks  of 
your  green  old  age  as  illustrating  the  truth  of  some 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  149 


axiom  you  had  uttered  with  reference  to  that  period 
•of  life.  What  I call  an  old  man  is  a person  with  a 
smooth,  shining  crown  and  a fringe  of  scattered  white 
hairs,  seen  in  the  streets  on  sunshiny  days,  stooping 
as  he  walks,  bearing  a cane,  moving  cautiously  and 
slowly ; telling  old  stories,  smiling  at  present  follies, 
living  in  a narrow  world  of  dry  habits ; one  that  re- 
mains waking  when  others  have  dropped  asleep,  and 
keeps  a little  night-lamp-flame  of  life  burning  year 
after  year,  if  the  lamp  is  not  upset,  and  there  is  only  a 
careful  hand  held  round  it  to  prevent  the  puffs  of  wind 
from  blowing  the  flame  out.  That ’s  what  I call  an 
old  man. 

Now,  said  the  Professor,  you  don’t  mean  to  tell  me 
that  I have  got  to  that  yet  ? Why,  bless  you,  I am 
several  years  short  of  the  time  when  — [I  knew  what 
was  coming,  and  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing; 
twenty  years  ago  he  used  to  quote  it  as  one  of  those 
absurd  speeches  men  of  genius  will  make,  and  now  he 
is  going  to  argue  from  it]  — several  years  short  of  the 
time  when  Balzac  says  that  men  are  — most  — you 
know  — dangerous  to  — the  hearts  of  — in  short,  most 
to  be  dreaded  by  duennas  that  have  charge  of  suscep- 
tible females.  — What  age  is  that?  said  I,  statistically. 

— Fifty-two  years,  answered  the  Professor.  — Balzac 
ought  to  know,  said  I,  if  it  is  true  that  Goethe  said  of 
him  that  each  of  his  stories  must  have  been  dug  out  of 
a woman’s  heart.  But  fifty-two  is  a high  figure. 

Stand  in  the  light  of  the  window.  Professor,  said  I. 

— The  Professor  took  up  the  desired  position.  — You 
have  white  hairs,  I said.  — Had  ’em  any  time  these 
twenty  years,  said  the  Professor.  — And  the  crow’s-foot, 
— jpes  anserinus^  rather. — The  Professor  smiled,  as 
I wanted  him  to,  and  the  folds  radiated  like  the  ridges 


150  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  a haK-opened  fan,  from  the  outer  corner  of  the  eyes 
to  the  temples.  — And  the  calipers,  said  I.  — What 
are  the  calipers  ? he  asked,  curiously.  — Why,  the 
parenthesis,  said  I.  — Parenthesis  f said  the  Profes- 
sor ; what ’s  that  ? — Why  look  in  the  glass  when  you 
are  disposed  to  laugh,  and  see  if  your  mouth  is  n’t 
framed  in  a couple  of  crescent  lines,  — so,  my  boy  ( ). 
— It ’s  all  nonsense,  said  the  Professor  ; just  look  at 
my  hiceps  ; — and  he  began  pulling  off  his  coat  to 
show  me  his  arm.  Be  careful,  said  I ; you  can’t  bear 
exposure  to  the  air,  at  your  time  of  life,  as  you  could 
once.  — I will  box  with  you,  said  the  Professor,  row 
with  you,  walk  with  you,  ride  with  you,  swim  with 
you,  or  sit  at  table  with  you,  for  fifty  dollars  a side.  — 
Pluck  survives  stamina,  I answered. 

The  Professor  went  off  a little  out  of  humor.  A few 
weeks  afterwards  he  came  in,  looking  very  good-na- 
tured, and  brought  me  a paper,  which  I have  here,  and 
from  which  I shall  read  you  some  portions,  if  you 
don’t  object.  He  had  been  thinking  the  matter  over, 
he  said,  — had  read  Cicero  ^‘De  Senectute,”  and  made 
up  his  mind  to  meet  old  age  half  way.  These  were 
some  of  his  reflections  which  he  had  written  down ; so 
here  you  have 

THE  PROFESSOR’S  PAPER. 

There  is  no  doubt  when  old  age  begins.  The  hu- 
man body  is  a furnace  which  keeps  in  blast  three-score 
years  and  ten,  more  or  less.  It  burns  about  three 
hundred  pounds  of  carbon  a year  (besides  other  fuel), 
when  in  fair  working  order,  according  to  a great  chem- 
ist’s estimate.  When  the  fire  slackens,  life  declines  ; 
when  it  goes  out,  we  are  dead. 

It  has  been  shown  by  some  noted  French  experi- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  151 

menters,  that  the  amount  of  combustion  increases  up 
to  about  the  thirtieth  year,  remains  stationary  to  about 
forty-five,  and  then  diminishes.  This  last  is  the  point 
where  old  age  starts  from.  The  great  fact  of  physical 
life  is  the  perpetual  commerce  with  the  elements,  and 
the  fire  is  the  measure  of  it. 

About  this  time  of  life,  if  food  is  plenty  where  you 
live,  — for  that,  you  know,  regulates  matrimony,  — 
you  may  be  expecting  to  find  yourself  a grandfather 
some  fine  morning ; a kind  of  domestic  felicity  which 
gives  one  a cool  shiver  of  delight  to  think  of,  as  among 
the  not  remotely  possible  events. 

I don’t  mind  much  those  slipshod  lines  Dr.  Johnson 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  telling  her  about  life’s  declining 
from  thirty-five ; the  furnace  is  in  full  blast  for  ten 
years  longer,  as  I have  said.  The  Romans  came  very 
near  the  mark ; their  age  of  enlistment  reached  from 
seventeen  to  forty-six  years. 

What  is  the  use  of  fighting  against  the  seasons,  or 
the  tides,  or  the  movements  of  the  planetary  bodies,  or 
this  ebb  in  the  wave  of  life  that  flows  through  us  ? 
We  are  old  fellows  from  the  moment  the  fire  begins 
to  go  out.  Let  us  always  behave  like  gentlemen  when 
we  are  introduced  to  new  acquaintances. 

Incipit  Allegoria  Senectutis* 

Old  Age,  this  is  Mr.  Professor ; Mr.  Professor,  this 
is  Old  Age. 

Old  -Age.  — Mr.  Professor,  I hope  to  see  you  well. 
I have  known  you  for  some  time,  though  I think  you 
did  not  know  me.  Shall  we  walk  down  the  street  to- 
gether ? 

Professor  (drawing  hack  a little).  — We  can  talk 
more  quietly,  perhaps,  in  my  study.  Will  you  tell 


152  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

me  how  it  is  you  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  every- 
body you  are  introduced  to,  though  he  evidently  con- 
siders you  an  entire  stranger  ? 

Old  Age,  — I make  it  a rule  never  to  force  myself 
upon  a person’s  recognition  imtil  I have  known  him 
at  least  years. 

Professor,  — Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
known  me  so  long  as  that  ? 

Old  Age,  — I do.  I left  my  card  on  you  longer 
ago  than  that,  but  I am  afraid  you  never  read  it ; yet 
I see  you  have  it  with  you. 

Professor,  — Where  ? 

Old  Age,  — There,  between  your  eyebrows,  — three 
straight  lines  running  up  and  down ; all  the  probate 
courts  know  that  token,  — ‘‘  Old  Age,  his  mark.” 
Put  your  forefinger  on  the  inner  end  of  one  eyebrow, 
and  your  middle  finger  on  the  inner  end  of  the  other 
eyebrow ; now  separate  the  fingers,  and  you  will 
smooth  out  my  sign-manual ; that ’s  the  way  you  used 
to  look  before  I left  my  card  on  you. 

Professor,  — What  message  do  people  generally 
send  back  when  you  first  call  on  them  ? 

Old  Age,  — Not  at  home.  Then  I leave  a card 
and  go.  Next  year  I call ; get  the  same  answer ; leave 
another  card.  So  for  five  or  six,  — sometimes  ten 
years  or  more.  At  last,  if  they  don’t  let  me  in,  I 
break  in  through  the  front  door  or  the  windows. 

We  talked  together  in  this  way  some  time.  Then 
Old  Age  said  again,  — Come,  let  us  walk  down  the 
street  together,  — and  offered  me  a cane,  an  eyeglass, 
a tippet,  and  a pair  of  over-shoes.  — No,  much 
obliged  to  you,  said  I.  I don’t  want  those  things,  and 
I had  a little  rather  talk  with  you  here,  privately,  in 
my  study.  So  I dressed  myself  up  in  a jaunty  way 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  153 


and  walked  out  alone ; — got  a fall,  caught  a cold, 
was  laid  up  with  a lumbago,  and  had  time  to  think 
over  this  whole  matter. 

Explicit  Allegoria  Senectutis. 

We  have  settled  when  old  age  begins.  Like  all 
Nature’s  processes,  it  is  gentle  and  gradual  in  its  ap- 
proaches, strewed  with  illusions,  and  all  its  little  griefs 
are  soothed  by  natural  sedatives.  But  the  iron  hand  is 
not  less  irresistible  because  it  wears  the  velvet  glove. 
The  button-wood  throws  off  its  bark  in  large  flakes, 
which  one  may  find  lying  at  its  foot,  pushed  out,  and 
at  last  pushed  off,  by  that  tranquil  movement  from 
beneath,  which  is  too  slow  to  be  seen,  but  too  power- 
ful to  be  arrested.  One  finds  them  always,  but  one 
rarely  sees  them  fall.  So  it  is  our  youth  drops  from 
us,  — scales  off,  sapless  and  lifeless,  and  lays  bare  the 
tender  and  immature  fresh  growth  of  old  age.  Looked 
at  collectively,  the  changes  of  old  age  appears  as  a 
series  of  personal  insults  and  indignities,  terminating 
at  last  in  death,  which  Sir  Thomas  Browne  has  called 
the  very  disgrace  and  ignominy  of  our  natures.” 

My  lady’s  cheek  can  boast  no  more 
The  cranberry  white  and  pink  it  wore; 

And  where  her  shining  locks  divide, 

The  parting  line  is  all  too  wide  — 

No,  no,  — this  will  never  do.  Talk  about  men,  if  you 
will,  but  spare  the  poor  women. 

We  have  a brief  description  of  seven  stages  of  life 
by  a remarkably  good  observer.  It  is  very  presump- 
tuous to  attempt  to  add  to  it,  yet  I have  been  struck 
with  the  fact  that  life  admits  of  a natural  analysis 
into  no  less  than  fifteen  distinct  periods.  Taking  the 
five  primary  divisions,  infancy,  childhood,  youth,  man- 


154  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

hood,  old  age,  each  of  these  has  its  own  three  periods 
of  immaturity,  complete  development,  and  decline.  I 
recognize  an  old  baby  at  once,  — with  its  “ pipe  and 
mug”  (a  stick  of  candy  and  a porringer),  — so  does 
everybody ; and  an  old  child  shedding  its  milk-teeth 
is  only  a little  prototype  of  the  old  man  shedding  his 
permanent  ones.  Fifty  or  thereabouts  is  only  the 
childhood,  as  it  were,  of  old  age ; the  graybeard 
youngster  must  be  weaned  from  his  late  suppers  now. 
So  you  will  see  that  you  have  to  make  fifteen  stages 
at  any  rate,  and  that  it  would  not  be  hard  to  make 
twenty-five ; five  primary,  each  with  five  secondary  di- 
visions. 

The  infancy  and  childhood  of  commencing  old  age 
have  the  same  ingenuous  simplicity  and  delightful  un- 
consciousness about  them  that  are  shown  by  the  first 
stage  of  the  earlier  periods  of  life.  The  great  delusion 
of  mankind  is  in  supposing  that  to  be  individual  and 
exceptional  which  is  universal  and  according  to  law. 
A person  is  always  startled  when  he  hears  himself 
seriously  called  an  old  man  for  the  first  time. 

Nature  gets  us  out  of  youth  into  manhood,  as  sailors 
are  hurried  on  board  of  vessels,  — in  a state  of  intoxi- 
cation. We  are  hustled  into  maturity  reeling  with 
our  passions  and  imaginations,  and  we  have  drifted 
far  away  from  port  before  we  awake  out  of  our  illu- 
sions. But  to  carry  us  out  of  maturity  into  old  age, 
without  our  knowing  where  we  are  going,  she  drugs 
us  with  strong  opiates,  and  so  we  stagger  along  with 
wide  open  eyes  that  see  nothing  until  snow  enough 
has  fallen  on  our  heads  to  rouse  our  half  comatose 
brains  out  of  their  stupid  trances. 

There  is  one  mark  of  age  which  strikes  me  more  than 
any  of  the  physical  ones  ; — I mean  the  formation  of 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  155 

Habits*  An  old  man  who  shrinks  into  himself  falls 
into  ways  which  become  as  positive  and  as  much  be- 
yond the  reach  of  outside  influences  as  if  they  were 
governed  by  clock  work.  The  animal  functions,  as 
the  physiologists  call  them,  in  distinction  from  the 
organic^  tend,  in  the  process  of  deterioration  to  which 
age  and  neglect  united  gradually  lead  them,  to  assume 
the  periodical  or  rhythmical  type  of  movement.  Every 
man’s  heart  (this  organ  belongs,  you  know,  to  the 
organic  system)  has  a regular  mode  of  action;  but 
I know  a great  many  men  whose  hrains,,  and  all  their 
voluntary  existence  flowing  from  their  brains,  have  a 
systole  and  diastole  as  regular  as  that  of  the  heart 
itself.  Habit  is  the  approximation  of  the  animal  sys- 
tem to  the  organic.  It  is  a confession  of  failure  in 
the  highest  function  of  being,  which  involves  a per- 
petual self-determination,  in  full  view  of  all  existing 
circumstances.  But  habit,  you  see,  is  an  action  in 
present  circumstances  from  past  motives.  It  is  sub- 
stituting vis  a ter  go  for  the  evolution  of  living 
force. 

When  a man,  instead  of  burning  up  three  hundred 
pounds  of  carbon  a year,  has  got  down  to  two  hundred 
and  fifty,  it  is  plain  enough  he  must  economize  force 
somewhere.  Now  habit  is  a labor-saving  invention 
which  enables  a man  to  get  along  with  less  fuel,  — 
that  is  all ; for  fuel  is  force,  you  know,  just  as  much 
in  the  page  I am  writing  for  you  as  in  the  locomotive 
or  the  legs  which  carry  it  to  you.  Carbon  is  the  same 
thing,  whether  you  call  it  wood,  or  coal,  or  bread  and 
cheese.  A reverend  gentleman  demurred  to  this  state- 
ment, — as  if,  because  combustion  is  asserted  to  be  the 
sine  qua  non  of  thought,  therefore  thought  is  alleged 
to  be  a purely  chemical  process.  Facts  of  chemistry 


156  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


are  one  thing,  I told  him,  and  facts  of  consciousness 
another.  It  can  be  proved  to  him,  by  a very  simple 
analysis  of  some  of  his  spare  elements,  that  every  Sun- 
day, when  he  does  his  duty  faithfully,  he  uses  up  more 
phosphorus  out  of  his  brain  and  nerves  than  on  or- 
dinary days.  But  then  he  had  his  choice  whether  to 
do  his  duty,  or  to  neglect  it,  and  save  his  phosphorus 
and  other  combustibles. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  formation  of  hahits 
ought  naturally  to  be,  as  it  is,  the  special  characteristic 
of  age.  As  for  the  muscular  powers,  they  pass  their 
maximum  long  before  the  time  when  the  true  decline 
of  life  begins,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  experience  of 
the  ring.  A man  is  “ stale,”  I think,  in  their  lan- 
guage, soon  after  thirty,  — often,  no  doubt,  much  ear- 
lier, as  gentlemen  of  the  pugilistic  profession  are  ex- 
ceedingly apt  to  keep  their  vital  fire  burning  with  the 
hlower  up, 

— So  far  without  Tully.  But  in  the  mean  time  I 
have  been  reading  the  treatise,  De  Senectute.”  It  is 
not  long,  but  is  a leisurely  performance.  The  old  gen- 
tleman was  sixty-three  years  of  age  when  he  addressed 
it  to  his  friend,  T.  Pomponius  Atticus,  Eq.,  a person  of 
distinction,  some  two  or  three  years  older.  We  read 
it  when  we  are  school-boys,  forget  all  about  it  for  thirty 
years,  and  then  take  it  up  again  by  a natural  instinct, — 
provided  always  that  we  read  Latin  as  we  drink  water, 
without  stopping  to  taste  it,  as  all  of  us  who  ever 
learned  it  at  school  or  college  ought  to  do. 

Cato  is  the  chief  speaker  in  the  dialogue.  A good 
deal  of  it  is  what  would  be  called  in  vulgar  phrase 
‘‘  slow.”  It  unpacks  and  unfolds  incidental  illustra- 
tions which  a modern  writer  would  look  at  the  back 
of,  and  toss  each  to  its  pigeon-hole.  I think  ancient 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  157 

classics  and  ancient  people  are  alike  in  the  tendency  to 
this  kind  of  expansion. 

An  old  doctor  came  to  me  once  (this  is  literal  fact) 
with  some  contrivance  or  other  for  people  with  broken 
kneepans.  As  the  patient  would  be  confined  for  a 
good  while,  he  might  find  it  dull  work  to  sit  with  his 
hands  in  his  lap.  Reading,  the  ingenious  inventor 
suggested,  would  be  an  agreeable  mode  of  passing 
the  time.  He  mentioned,  in  his  written  account  of 
his  contrivance,  various  works  which  might  amuse  the 
weary  hour.  I remember  only  three,  — Don  Quixote, 
Tom  Jones,  and  Watts,  on  the  Mind. 

It  is  not  generally  understood  that  Cicero’s  essay 
was  delivered  as  a lyceum  lecture  (eoneio  popularis^ 
at  the  Temple  of  Mercury.  The  journals  Qpapyri)  of 
the  day  (“Tempora  Quotidiana,”  — ‘‘  Tribunus  Quir- 
inalis,” — “ Praeco  Romanus,”  and  the  rest)  gave  ab-^ 
stracts  of  it,  one  of  which  I have  translated  and  mod- 
ernized, as  being  a substitute  for  the  analysis  I in- 
tended to  make. 

IV.  Kal  Mart.  . . . 

The  lecture  at  the  Temple  of  Mercury,  last  evening, 
was  well  attended  by  the  Slite  of  our  great  city.  Two 
hundred  thousand  sestertia  were  thought  to  have  been 
represented  in  the  house.  The  doors  were  besieged  by 
a mob  of  shabby  fellows  (illotum  vulgus^^  who  were 
at  length  quieted  after  two  or  three  had  been  some- 
what roughly  handled  (^gladio  jugulati).  The  speaker 
was  the  well-known  Mark  Tully,  Eq., — the  subject 
Old  Age.  Mr.  T.  has  a lean  and  scraggy  person,  with 
a very  unpleasant  excrescence  upon  his  nasal  feature, 
from  which  his  nickname  of  ehieh-pea  (Cicero)  is  said 
by  some  to  be  derived.  As  a lecturer  is  public  prop- 


158  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

erty,  we  may  remark,  that  his  outer  garment  (toga) 
was  of  cheap  stuff  and  somewhat  worn,  and  that  his 
general  style  and  appearance  of  dress  and  manner 
(Tiahitus^  vestitusque)  were  somewhat  provincial. 

The  lecture  consisted  of  an  imaginary  dialogue  be- 
tween Cato  and  LaBlius.  We  found  the  first  portion 
rather  heavy,  and  retired  a few  moments  for  refresh- 
ment (pocula  qucedam  vini).  — All  want  to  reach  old 
age,  says  Cato,  and  grumble  when  they  get  it ; there- 
fore they  are  donkeys.  — The  lecturer  will  allow  us  to 
say  that  he  is  the  donkey ; we  know  we  shall  grumble 
at  old  age,  but  we  want  to  live  through  youth  and 
manhood,  in  spite  of  the  troubles  we  shall  groan  over. 
— There  was  considerable  prosing  as  to  what  old  age 
can  do  and  can’t.  — True,  but  not  new.  Certainly, 
old  folks  can’t  jump,  — break  the  necks  of  their  thigh- 
bones (femoTum  cervices)^  if  they  do ; can’t  crack  nuts 
with  their  teeth ; can’t  climb  a greased  pole  (malum 
inunctum  scandere  non  possunt)  ; but  they  can  tell 
old  stories  and  give  you  good  advice ; if  they  know 
what  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  do  when  you  ask 
them.  — All  this  is  well  enough,  but  won’t  set  the 
Tiber  on  fire  (Tiberim  accendere  nequaquam  potest.) 

There  were  some  clever  things  enough  (dicta  hand 
inepta)^  a few  of  which  are  worth  reporting.  — Old 
people  are  accused  of  being  forgetful ; but  they  never 
forget  where  they  have  put  their  money.  — Nobody  is 
so  old  he  does  n’t  think  he  can  live  a year.  — The 
lecturer  quoted  an  ancient  maxim,  — Grow  old  early, 
if  you  would  be  old  long,  — but  disputed  it.  — Author- 
ity, he  thought,  was  the  chief  privilege  of  age.  — It  is 
not  great  to  have  money,  but  fine  to  govern  those  who 
have  it.  — Old  age  begins  at  forty-six  years,  accord- 
ing to  the  common  opinion.  — It  is  not  every  kind  of 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  159 

old  age  or  of  wine  that  grows  sour  with  time.  — Some 
excellent  remarks  were  made  on  immortality,  but 
mainly  borrowed  from  and  credited  to  Plato.  — Sev- 
eral pleasing  anecdotes  were  told.  — Old  Milo,  cham- 
pion of  the  heavy  weights  in  his  day,  looked  at  his 
arms  and  whimpered,  “ They  are  dead.”  Not  so  dead 
as  you,  you  old  fool,  — says  Cato  ; — you  never  were 
good  for  anything  but  for  your  shoulders  and  flanks. 
— Pisistratus  asked  Solon  what  made  him  dare  to  be 
so  obstinate.  Old  age,  said  Solon. 

The  lecture  was  on  the  whole  acceptable,  and  a 
credit  to  our  culture  and  civilization.  — The  reporter 
goes  on  to  state  that  there  will  be  no  lecture  next 
week,  on  account  of  the  expected  combat  between  the 
bear  and  the  barbarian.  Betting  Qsponsio')  two  to 
one  (duo  ad  unum)  on  the  bear. 

— After  all,  the  most  encouraging  things  I find  in 
the  treatise,  ‘‘De  Senectute,”  are  the  stories  of  men 
who  have  found  new  occupations  when  growing  old,  or 
kept  up  their  common  pursuits  in  the  extreme  period 
of  life.  Cato  learned  Greek  when  he  was  old,  and 
speaks  of  wishing  to  learn  the  fiddle,  or  some  such 
instrument  (jidihus)^  after  the  example  of  Socrates. 
Solon  learned  something  new,  every  day,  in  his  old 
age,  as  he  gloried  to  proclaim.  Cyrus  pointed  out 
with  pride  and  pleasure  the  trees  he  had  planted  with 
his  own  hand.  [I  remember  a pillar  on  the  Duke  of 
Northumberland’s  estate  at  Alnwick,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion in  similar  words,  if  not  the  same.  That,  like 
other  country  pleasures,  never  wears  out.  None  is  too 
rich,  none  too  poor,  none  too  young,  none  too  old  to 
enjoy  it.]  There  is  a New  England  story  I have  heard, 
more  to  the  point,  however,  than  any  of  Cicero’s.  A 


160  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

young  farmer  was  urged  to  set  out  some  apple-trees. — 
No,  said  he,  they  are  too  long  growing,  and  I don’t 
want  to  plant  for  other  people.  The  young  farmer’s 
father  was  spoken  to  about  it,  but  he,  with  better  rea- 
son, alleged  that  apple-trees  were  slow  and  life  was 
fleeting.  At  last  some  one  mentioned  it  to  the  old 
grandfather  of  the  young  farmer.  He  had  nothing 
else  to  do,  — so  he  stuck  in  some  trees.  He  lived 
long  enough  to  drink  barrels  of  cider  made  from  the 
apples  that  grew  on  those  trees. 

As  for  myself,  after  visiting  a friend  lately,  — [Do 
remember  all  the  time  that  this  is  the  Professor’s 
paper.]  — I satisfied  myself  that  I had  better  concede 
the  fact  that,  — my  contemporaries  are  not  so  young  as 
they  have  been,  — and  that,  — awkward  as  it  is,  — 
science  and  history  agree  in  telling  me  that  I can 
claim  the  immunities  and  must  own  the  humiliations 
of  the  early  stage  of  senility.  Ah ! but  we  have  all 
gone  down  the  hill  together.  The  dandies  of  my  time 
have  split  their  waistbands  and  taken  to  high  low 
shoes.  The  beauties  of  my  recollections  — where  are 
they  ? They  have  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  years  as  well 
as  I.  First  the  years  pelted  them  with  red  roses  till 
their  cheeks  were  all  on  fire.  By  and  by  they  began 
throwing  white  roses,  and  that  morning  flush  passed 
away.  At  last  one  of  the  years  threw  a snow-ball,  and 
after  that  no  year  let  the  poor  girls  pass  without 
throwing  snow-balls.  And  then  came  rougher  mis- 
siles, — ice  and  stones  ; and  from  time  to  time  an 
arrow  whistled,  and  down  went  one  of  the  poor  girls. 
So  there  are  but  few  left ; and  we  don’t  call  those  few 
girls^  but  — 

Ah,  me ! here  am  I groaning  just  as  the  old  Greek 
sighed  At,  al!  and  the  old  Roman,  ETieuI  I have  no 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  161 


doubt  we  should  die  of  shame  and  grief  at  the  indigni- 
ties offered  us  by  age,  if  it  were  not  that  we  see  so 
many  others  as  badly  as  or  worse  off  than  ourselves. 
We  always  compare  ourselves  with  our  contempo- 
raries. 

[I  was  interrupted  in  my  reading  just  here.  Be- 
fore I began  at  the  next  breakfast,  I read  them  these 
verses  ; — I hope  you  will  like  them,  and  get  a useful 
lesson  from  them.] 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 

Though  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 
Of  beauty’s  dear  deluding  wiles; 

The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 
Shorter  than  boyhood’s  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a woman’s  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe’s  silvered  hair, 

And  many  a Holy  Father’s  “ niece  ” 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 
Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch’s  wintry  face, 

The  maid  of  Egypt’s  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 

As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  Lord’s  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere.  life’s  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

11 


162  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

And  Earth’s  brown,  clinging  lips  imjiress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day 
When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I met, 

And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain 
Light  as  a loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O’er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com’st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 

Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet’s  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song! 

She  blushes!  Ah,  reluctant  maid. 

Love’s  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told; 

O’er  girlhood’s  yielding  barricade 
Floats  the  great  Leveller’s  crimson  fold! 

Come  to  my  arms ! — love  heeds  not  years. 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 

Ha ! what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A voice  behind  me  uttered,  — Rose! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  — but  not  for  me; 

Alas,  when  woman  looks  too  kind. 

Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind ! 

As  to  giving  up  because  the  almanac  or  the  Fam- 
ily-Bible  says  that  it  is  about  time  to  do  it,  I have  no 
intention  of  doing  any  such  thing.  I grant  you  that 
I burn  less  carbon  than  some  years  ago.  I see  people 
of  my  standing  really  good  for  nothing,  decrepit, 
effete,  la  levre  inferieure  dejd  pendante^  with  what 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  163 

little  life  they  have  left  mainly  concentrated  in  their 
epigastrium.  But  as  the  disease  of  old  age  is  epi- 
demic, endemic,  and  sporadic,  and  everybody  who 
lives  long  enough  is  sure  to  catch  it,  I am  going  to 
say,  for  the  encouragement  of  such  as  need  it,  how  I 
treat  the  malady  in  my  own  case. 

First.  As  I feel,  that,  when  I have  anything  to  do, 
there  is  less  time  for  it  than  when  I was  younger,  I 
find  that  I give  my  attention  more  thoroughly,  and 
use  my  time  more  economically  than  ever  before ; so 
that  I can  learn  anything  twice  as  easily  as  in  my  ear- 
lier days.  I am  not,  therefore,  afraid  to  attack  a new 
study.  I took  up  a difficult  language  a very  few 
years  ago  with  good  success,  and  think  of  mathematics 
and  metaphysics  by-and-by. 

Secondly.  I have  opened  my  eyes  to  a good  many 
neglected  privileges  and  pleasures  within  my  reach, 
and  requiring  only  a little  courage  to  enjoy  them. 
You  may  well  suppose  it  pleased  me  to  find  that  old 
Cato  was  thinking  of  learning  to  play  fhe  fiddle,  when 
I had  deliberately  taken  it  up  in  my  old  age,  and  sat- 
isfied myself  that  I could  get  much  comfort,  if  not 
much  music,  out  of  it. 

Thirdly.  I have  found  that  some  of  those  active 
exereises,  which  are  commonly  thought  to  belong  to 
young  folks  only,  may  be  enjoyed  at  a much  later 
period. 

A young  friend  has  lately  written  an  admirable 
article  in  one  of  the  journals,  entitled,  ‘‘  Saints  and 
their  Bodies.”  Approving  of  his  general  doctrines, 
and  grateful  for  his  records  of  personal  experience,  I 
cannot  refuse  to  add  my  own  experimental  confirma- 
tion of  his  eulogy  of  one  particular  form  of  active  ex- 
ercise and  amusement,  namely,  boating , For  the  past 


164  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

nine  years,  I have  rowed  about,  during  a good  part  of 
the  summer,  on  fresh  or  salt  water.  My  present  fleet 
on  the  river  Charles  consists  of  three  row-boats.  1. 
A small  flat-bottomed  skiff  of  the  shape  of  a flat-iron, 
kept  mainly  to  lend  to  boys.  2.  A fancy  dory  ” for 
two  pairs  of  sculls,  in  which  I sometimes  go  out  with 
my  young  folks.  3.  My  own  particular  water-sulky, 
a ‘‘skeleton”  or  “shell”  race-boat,  twenty-two  feet 
long,  with  huge  outriggers,  which  boat  I pull  with  ten- 
foot  sculls,  — alone,  of  course,  as  it  holds  but  one,  and 
tips  him  out,  if  he  does  n’t  mind  what  he  is  about.  In 
this  I glide  around  the  Back  Bay,  down  the  stream, 
up  the  Charles  to  Cambridge  and  Watertown,  up  the 
Mystic,  roimd  the  wharves,  in  the  wake  of  steamboats, 
which  leave  a swell  after  them  delightful  to  rock 
upon  ; I linger  under  the  bridges,  — those  “ caterpillar 
bridges,”  as  my  brother  professor  so  happily  called 
them ; rub  against  the  black  sides  of  old  wood-schoon- 
ers ; cool  down  under  the  overhanging  stern  of  some 
tall  Indiaman ; stretch  across  to  the  Navy  Yard, 
where  the  sentinel  warns  me  off  from  the  Ohio,  — just 
as  if  I should  hurt  her  by  lying  in  her  shadow ; then 
strike  out  into  the  harbor,  where  the  water  gets  clear 
and  the  air  smells  of  the  ocean,  — till  all  at  once  I 
remember,  that,  if  a west  wind  blows  up  of  a sudden, 
I shall  drift  along  past  the  islands,  out  of  sight  of  the 
dear  old  State-house,  — plate,  tumbler,  knife  and  fork 
all  waiting  at  home,  but  no  chair  drawn  up  at  the 
table,  — all  the  dear  people  waiting,  waiting,  waiting, 
while  the  boat  is  sliding,  sliding,  sliding  into  the  great 
desert,  where  there  is  no  tree  and  no  fountain.  As  I 
don’t  want  my  wreck  to  be  washed  up  on  one  of  the 
beaches  in  company  with  devil’ s-aprons,  bladder- 
weeds,  dead  horse-shoes,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  165 

turn  about  and  flap  my  long,  narrow  wings  for  home. 
When  the  tide  is  running  out  swiftly,  I have  a splen- 
did fight  to  get  through  the  bridges,  but  always  make 
it  a rule  to  beat,  — though  I have  been  jammed  up 
into  pretty  tight  places  at  times,  and  was  caught  once 
between  a vessel  swinging  round  and  the  pier,  until 
our  bones  (the  boat’s,  that  is)  cracked  as  if  we  had 
been  in  the  jaws  of  Behemoth.  Then  back  to  my 
moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Common,  off  with  the 
rowing-dress,  dash  under  the  green  translucent  wave, 
return  to  the  garb  of  civilization,  walk  through  my 
Garden,  take  a look  at  my  elms  on  the  Common,  and, 
reaching  my  habitat,  in  consideration  of  my  advanced 
period  of  life,  indulge  in  the  Elysian  abandonment  of 
a huge  recumbent  chair. 

When  I have  established  a pair  of  well-pronounced 
feathering-calluses  on  my  thumbs,  when  I am  in  train- 
ing so  that  I can  do  my  fifteen  miles  at  a stretch  with- 
out coming  to  grief  in  any  way,  when  I can  perform 
my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or  a little  more,  then  I feel 
as  if  I had  old  Time’s  head  in  chancery,  and  could 
give  it  to  him  at  my  leisure. 

I do  not  deny  the  attraction  of  walking.  I have 
bored  this  ancient  city  through  and  through  in  my 
daily  travels,  until  I know  it  as  an  old  inhabitant  of  a 
Cheshire  knows  his  cheese.  Why,  it  was  I who,  in 
the  course  of  these  rambles,  discovered  that  remarka- 
ble avenue  called  Myrtle  Street^  stretching  in  one  long 
line  from  east  of  the  Reservoir  to  a precipitous  and 
rudely  paved  cliff  which  looks  down  on  the  grim  abode 
of  Science,  and  beyond  it  to  the  far  hills ; a prome- 
nade so  delicious  in  its  repose,  so  cheerfully  varied 
with  glimpses  down  the  northern  slope  into  busy  Cam- 
bridge Street  with  its  iron  river  of  the  horse-railroad, 


166  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

and  wheeled  barges  gliding  back  and  forward  over  it, 
— so  delightfully  closing  at  its  western  extremity  in 
sunny  courts  and  passages  where  I know  peace,  and 
beauty,  and  virtue,  and  serene  old  age  must  be  per- 
petual tenants,  — so  alluring  to  all  who  desire  to  take 
their  daily  stroll,  in  the  words  of  Dr.  W atts,  — 

‘‘  Alike  unknowing  and  unknown,’’  — 

that  nothing  but  a sense  of  duty  would  have  prompted 
me  to  reveal  the  secret  of  its  existence.  I concede, 
therefore,  that  walking  is  an  immeasurably  fine  inven- 
tion, of  which  old  age  ought  constantly  to  avail  it- 
self. 

Saddle-leather  is  in  some  respects  even  preferable 
to  sole-leather.  The  principal  objection  to  it  is  of  a 
financial  character.  But  you  may  be  sure  that  Bacon 
and  Sydenham  did  not  recommend  it  for  nothing. 
One’s  Tiepar^  or,  in  vulgar  language,  liver,  — a ponder- 
ous organ,  weighing  some  three  or  four  pounds,  — 
goes  up  and  down  like  the  dasher  of  a churn  in  the 
midst  of  the  other  vital  arrangements,  at  every  step  of 
a trotting  horse.  The  brains  also  are  shaken  up  like 
coppers  in  a money-box.  Biding  is  good,  for  those 
that  are  born  with  a silver-mounted  bridle  in  their 
hand,  and  can  ride  as  much  and  as  often  as  they  like, 
without  thinking  all  the  time  they  hear  that  steady 
grinding  sound  as  the  horse’s  jaws  triturate  with  calm 
lateral  movement  the  bank-bills  and  promises  to  pay 
upon  which  it  is  notorious  that  the  profligate  animal 
in  question  feeds  day  and  night. 

Instead,  however,  of  considering  these  kinds  of 
exercise  in  this  empirical  way,  I will  devote  a brief 
space  to  an  examination  of  them  in  a more  scientific 
form. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  167 

The  pleasure  of  exercise  is  due  first  to  a purely 
physical  impression,  and  secondly  to  a sense  of  power 
in  action.  The  first  source  of  pleasure  varies  of  course 
with  our  condition  and  the  state  of  the  surrounding 
circumstances ; the  second  with  the  amount  and  kind 
of  power,  and  the  extent  and  kind  of  action.  In  all 
forms  of  active  exercise  there  are  three  powers  simul- 
taneously in  action,  — the  will,  the  muscles,  and  the 
intellect.  Each  of  these  predominates  in  different 
kinds  of  exercise.  In  walking,  the  will  and  muscles 
are  so  accustomed  to  work  together  and  perform  their 
task  with  so  little  expenditure  of  force,  that  the  intel- 
lect is  left  comparatively  free.  The  mental  pleasure 
in  walking,  as  such,  is  in  the  sense  of  power  over  all 
our  moving  machinery.  But  in  riding,  I have  the  ad- 
ditional pleasure  of  governing  another  will,  and  my 
muscles  extend  to  the  tips  of  the  animal’s  ears  and  to 
his  four  hoofs,  instead  of  stopping  at  my  hands  and 
feet.  Now  in  this  extension  of  my  volition  and  my 
physical  frame  into  another  animal,  my  tyrannical  in- 
stincts and  my  desire  for  heroic  strength  are  at  once 
gratified.  When  the  horse  ceases  to  have  a will  of 
his  own  and  his  muscles  require  no  special  attention 
on  your  part,  then  you  may  live  on  horseback  as  Wes- 
ley did,  and  write  sermons  or  take  naps,  as  you  like. 
But  you  will  observe,  that,  in  riding  on  horseback 
you  always  have  a feeling,  that,  after  all,  it  is  not  you 
that  do  the  work,  but  the  animal,  and  this  prevents  the 
satisfaction  from  being  complete. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  conditions  of  rowing.  I 
won’t  suppose  you  to  be  disgracing  yourself  in  one  of 
those  miserable  tubs,  tugging  in  which  is  to  rowing  the 
true  boat  what  riding  a cow  is  to  bestriding  an  Arab. 
You  know  the  Esquimaux  hayak  (if  that  is  the  name 


168  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


of  it),  don’t  you?  Look  at  that  model  of  one  over 
my  door.  Sharp,  rather  ? — On  the  contrary,  it  is  a 
lubber  to  the  one  you  and  I must  have ; a Dutch  fish- 
wife to  Psyche,  contrasted  with  what  I will  tell  you 
about.  — Our  boat,  then,  is  something  of  the  shape  of 
a pickerel,  as  you  look  down  upon  his  back,  he  lying 
in  the  sunshine  just  where  the  sharp  edge  of  the  water 
cuts  in  among  the  lily-pads.  It  is  a kind  of  giant  ])od^ 
as  one  may  say,  — tight  everywhere,  except  in  a little 
place  in  the  middle,  where  you  sit.  Its  length  is  from 
seven  to  ten  yards,  and  as  it  is  only  from  sixteen  to 
thirty  inches  wide  in  its  widest  part,  you  understand 
why  you  want  those  outriggers,”  or  projecting  iron 
frames  with  the  rowlocks  in  which  the  oars  play.  My 
rowlocks  are  five  feet  apart ; double  the  greatest  width 
of  the  boat. 

Here  you  are,  then,  afloat  with  a body  a rod  and  a 
half  long,  with  arms,  or  wings,  as  you  may  choose  to 
call  them,  stretching  more  than  twenty  feet  from  tip 
to  tip  ; every  volition  of  yours  extending  as  perfectly 
into  them  as  if  your  spinal  cord  ran  down  the  centre 
strip  of  your  boat,  and  the  nerves  of  your  arms  tingled 
as  far  as  the  broad  blades  of  your  oars,  — oars  of 
spruce,  balanced,  leathered  and  ringed  under  your  own 
special  direction.  This,  in  sober  earnest,  is  the  near- 
est approach  to  flying  that  man  has  ever  made  or  per- 
haps ever  will  make.  ® As  the  hawk  sails  without 

" Since  the  days  when  this  was  written  the  bicycle  has  ap- 
peared as  the  rival  of  the  wherry.  I have  witnessed  three  ap- 
pearances of  the  pedal  locomotive.  The  first  was  when  I was  a 
boy.  (The  machine  was  introduced  into  Great  Britain  from 
France  about  1820.)  Some  of  the  Harvard  College  students 
who  boarded  in  my  neighborhood  had  these  machines,  then 
called  velocipedes,  on  which  they  used  to  waddle  along  like  so 
many  ducks,  their  feet  pushing  against  the  ground,  and  looking 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  169 


flapping  his  pinions,  so  you  drift  with  the  tide  when 
you  will,  in  the  most  luxurious  form  of  locomotion  in- 
dulged to  an  embodied  spirit.  But  if  your  blood  wants 
rousing,  turn  round  that  stake  in  the  river,  which  you 
see  a mile  from  here ; and  when  you  come  in  in  sixteen 
minutes  (if  you  do,  for  we  are  old  boys,  and  not 
champion  scullers,  you  remember),  then  say  if  you  be- 
gin to  feel  a little  warmed  up  or  not!  You  can  row 
easily  and  gently  all  day,  and  you  can  row  yourself 
blind  and  black  in  the  face  in  ten  minutes,  just  as  you 
like.  It  has  been  long  agreed  that  there  is  no  way  in 
which  a man  can  accomplish  so  much  labor  with  his 
muscles  as  in  rowing.  It  is  in  the  boat,  then,  that 
man  finds  the  largest  extension  of  his  volitional  and 
muscular  existence  ; and  yet  he  may  tax  both  of  them 
so  slightly,  in  that  most  delicious  of  exercises,  that  he 
shall  mentally  write  his  sermon,  or  his  poem,  or  recall 
the  remarks  he  has  made  in  company  and  put  them  in 
form  for  the  public,  as  well  as  in  his  easy-chair. 

as  if  they  were  perched  on  portable  treadmills.  They  soon  found 
that  legs  were  made  before  velocipedes.  Our  grown-up  young 
people  may  remember  the  second  advent  of  the  contrivance, 
now  become  a treadle-locomotive.  There  were  “ rinks  ” where 
this  form  of  roller-skating  had  a brief  run,  and  then  legs  again 
asserted  their  prior  claim  and  greater  convenience.  At  the 
Centennial  Exhibition  at  Philadelphia,  in  1876,  I first  saw  the 
modern  bicycles,  some  of  them,  at  least,  from  Coventry,  Eng- 
land. Since  that  time  the  bicycle  glides  in  and  out  everywhere, 
noiseless  as  a serpent, 

And  [wheels]  rush  in  where  [horses]  fear  to  tread. 

The  boat  flies  like  a sea-bird  with  its  long,  narrow,  outstretched 
pinions;  the  bicycle  rider,  like  feathered  Mercury,  with  his 
wings  on  his  feet.  There  seems  to  be  nothing  left  to  perfect  in 
the  way  of  human  locomotion  but  aerial  swimming,  which  some 
fancy  is  to  be  a conquest  of  the  future. 


170  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

I dare  not  publicly  name  the  rare  joys,  the  infinite 
delights,  that  intoxicate  me  on  some  sweet  Jime  morn- 
ing, when  the  river  and  bay  are  smooth  as  a sheet  of 
beryl-green  silk,  and  I run  along  ripping  it  up  with 
my  knife-edged  shell  of  a boat,  the  rent  closing  aftet 
me  like  those  wounds  of  angels  which  Milton  tells  of, 
but  the  seam  still  shining  for  many  a long  rood  be- 
hind me.  To  lie  still  over  the  Flats,  where  the  waters 
are  shallow,  and  see  the  crabs  crawling  and  the  scul- 
pins  gliding  busily  and  silently  beneath  the  boat,  — to 
rustle  in  through  the  long  harsh  grass  that  leads  up 
some  tranquil  creek,  — - to  take  shelter  from  the  sun- 
beams under  one  of  the  thousand-footed  bridges,  and 
look  down  its  interminable  colonnades,  crusted  with 
green  and  oozy  growths,  studded  with  minute  bar- 
nacles, and  belted  with  rings  of  dark  mussels,  while 
overhead  streams  and  thunders  that  other  river  whose 
every  wave  is  a hiunan  soul  flowing  to  eternity  as  the 
river  below  flows  to  the  ocean,  — lying  there  moored 
imseen,  in  loneliness  so  profound  that  the  columns  of 
Tadmor  in  the  Desert  could  not  seem  more  remote 
from  life  — the  cool  breeze  on  one’s  forehead,  the 
stream  whispering  against  the  half-sunken  pillars,  — 
why  should  I tell  of  these  things,  that  I should  live  to 
see  my  beloved  haunts  invaded  and  the  waves  black- 
ened with  boats  as  with  a swarm  of  water-beetles? 
What  a city  of  idiots  we  must  be  not  to  have  covered 
this  glorious  bay  with  gondolas  and  wherries,  as  we 
have  just  learned  to  cover  the  ice  in  winter  with 
skaters ! 

I am  satisfied  that  such  a set  of  black-coated,  stiff- 
jointed,  soft-muscled,  paste-complexioned  youth  as  we 
can  boast  in  our  Atlantic  cities  never  before  sprang 
from  loins  of  Anglo-Saxon  lineage.  Of  the  females 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  171 

that  are  the  mates  of  these  males  I do  not  here  speak. 
I preached  my  sermon  from  the  lay-pulpit  on  this 
matter  a good  while  ago.  Of  course,  if  you  heard  it, 
you  know  my  belief  is  that  the  total  climatic  influences 
here  are  getting  up  a number  of  new  patterns  of  hu- 
manity, some  of  which  are  not  an  improvement  on  the 
old  model.  Clipper-built,  sharp  in  the  bows,  long  in 
the  spars,  slender  to  look  at,  and  fast  to  go,  the  ship, 
which  is  the  great  organ  of  our  national  life  of  rela- 
tion, is  but  a reproduction  of  the  typical  form  which 
the  elements  impress  upon  its  builder.  All  this  we 
cannot  help ; but  we  can  make  the  best  of  these  in- 
fluences, such  as  they  are.  We  have  a few  good  boat- 
men, — no  good  horsemen  that  I hear  of,  — I cannot 
speak  for  cricketing,  — but  as  for  any  great  athletic 
feat  performed  by  a gentleman  in  these  latitudes,  soci- 
ety would  drop  a man  who  should  run  round  the  Com- 
mon in  five  minutes.  Some  of  our  amateur  fencers, 
single-stick  players,  and  boxers,  we  have  no  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of.  Boxing  is  rough  play,  but  not  too 
rough  for  a hearty  young  fellow.  Anything  is  better 
than  this  white-blooded  degeneration  to  which  we  all 
tend. 

I dropped  in  at  a gentlemen’s  sparring  exhibition 
only  last  evening.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  that 
there  were  a few  young  and  youngish  youths  left  who 
could  take  care  of  their  own  heads  in  case  of  emer- 
gency. It  is  a fine  sight,  that  of  a gentleman  resolv- 
ing himself  into  the  primitive  constituents  of  his  hu- 
manity. Here  is  a delicate  young  man  now,  with  an 
intellectual  countenance,  a slight  figure,  a subpallid 
complexion,  a most  unassuming  deportment,  a mild 
adolescent  in  fact,  that  any  Hiram  or  J onathan  from 
between  the  ploughtails  would  of  course  expect  to 


172  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

handle  with  perfect  ease.  Oh,  he  is  taking  off  his 
gold-bowed  spectacles ! Ah,  he  is  divesting  himself  of 
his  cravat ! Why,  he  is  stripping  off  his  coat ! Well, 
here  he  is,  sure  enough,  in  a tight  silk  shirt,  and  with 
two  things  that  look  like  batter  puddings  in  the  place 
of  his  fists.  Now  see  that  other  fellow  with  another 
pair  of  batter  puddings,  — the  big  one  with  the  broad 
shoulders ; he  will  certainly  knock  the  little  man’s 
head  off,  if  he  strikes  him.  Feinting,  dodging,  stop- 
ping, hitting,  countering,  — little  man’s  head  not  off 
yet.  You  might  as  well  try  to  jump  upon  your  own 
shadow  as  to  hit  the  little  man’s  intellectual  features. 
He  need  n’t  have  taken  off  the  gold-bowed  spectacles 
at  all.  Quick,  cautious,  shifty,  nimble,  cool,  he  catches 
all  the  fierce  lunges  or  gets  out  of  their  reach,  till  his 
turn  comes,  and  then,  whack  goes  one  of  the  batter 
puddings  against  the  big  one’s  ribs,  and  bang  goes  the 
other  into  the  big  one’s  face  and,  staggering,  shuffling, 
slipping,  tripping,  collapsing,  sprawling,  down  goes 
the  big  one  in  a miscellaneous  bundle.  — If  my  young 
friend,  whose  excellent  article  I have  referred  to, 
could  only  introduce  the  manly  art  of  self-defenco 
among  the  clergy,  I am  satisfied  that  we  should  have 
better  sermons  and  an  infinitely  less  quarrelsome 
church-militant.  A bout  with  the  gloves  would  let  off 
the  ill-nature,  and  cure  the  indigestion,  which,  united, 
have  embroiled  their  subject  in  a bitter  controversy. 
We  should  then  often  hear  that  a point  of  difference 
between  an  infallible  and  a heretic,  instead  of  being 
vehemently  discussed  in  a series  of  newspaper  articles, 
had  been  settled  by  a friendly  contest  in  several 
rounds,  at  the  close  of  which  the  parties  shook  hands 
and  appeared  cordially  reconciled. 

But  boxing  you  and  I are  too  old  for,  I am  afraid. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  173 

I was  for  a moment  tempted,  by  the  contagion  of 
muscular  electricity  last  evening,  to  try  the  gloves 
with  the  Benicia  Boy,  who  looked  in  as  a friend  to  the 
noble  art;  but  remembering  that  he  had  twice  my 
weight  and  half  my  age,  besides  the  advantage  of  his 
training,  I sat  still  and  said  nothing. 

There  is  one  other  delicate  point  I wish  to  speak  of 
with  reference  to  old  age.  I refer  to  the  use  of  diop- 
tric media  which  correct  the  diminished  refracting 
power  of  the  humors  of  the  eye, — in  other  words, 
spectacles.  I don’t  use  them.  All  I ask  is  a large, 
fair  type,  a strong  daylight  or  gas-light,  and  one  yard 
of  focal  distance,  and  my  eyes  are  as  good  as  ever. 
But  if  your  eyes  fail,  I can  tell  you  something  encour- 
aging. There  is  now  living  in  New  York  State  an 
old  gentleman  who,  perceiving  his  sight  to  fail,  imme- 
diately took  to  exercising  it  on  the  finest  print,  and  in 
this  way  fairly  bullied  Nature  out  of  her  foolish  habit 
of  taking  liberties  at  five-and-forty,  or  thereabout. 
And  now  this  old  gentleman  performs  the  most  ex- 
traordinary feats  with  his  pen,  showing  that  his  eyes 
must  be  a pair  of  microscopes.  I should  be  afraid  to 
say  to  you  how  much  he  writes  in  the  compass  of  a 
half-dime,  — whether  the  Psalms  or  the  Gospels,  or 
the  Psalms  and  the  Gospels,  I won’t  be  positive. 

But  now  let  me  tell  you  this.  If  the  time  comes 
when  you  must  lay  down  the  fiddle  and  the  bow,  be- 
cause your  fingers  are  too  stiff,  and  drop  the  ten-foot 
sculls,  because  your  arms  are  too  weak,  and,  after  dal- 
lying a while  with  eye-glasses,  come  at  last  to  the  un- 
disguised reality  of  spectacles,  — if  the  time  comes 
when  that  fire  of  life  we  spoke  of  has  burned  so  low 
that  where  its  fiames  reverberated  there  is  only  the 
sombre  stain  of  regret,  and  where  its  coals  glowed, 


174  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

only  the  white  ashes  that  cover  the  embers  of  memory, 
— don’t  let  your  heart  grow  cold,  and  you  may  carry 
cheerfidness  and  love  with  you  into  the  teens  of  your 
second  century,  if  you  can  last  so  long.  As  our 
friend,  the  Poet,  once  said,  in  some  of  those  old-fash- 
ioned heroics  of  his  which  he  keeps  for  his  private 
reading,  — 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o’er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 

For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 

If  yet  the  minstrel’s  song,  the  poet’s  lay. 

Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  with  their  play, 

Or  maiden’s  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart,  — 

Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told,  — 

Count  his  gray  hairs,  — they  cannot  make  him  old! 

End  of  the  Professor’s  paper, 

[The  above  essay  was  not  read  at  one  time,  but  in 
several  instalments,  and  accompanied  by  various  com- 
ments from  different  persons  at  the  table.  The  com- 
pany were  in  the  main  attentive,  with  the  exception  of 
a little  somnolence  on  the  part  of  the  old  gentleman 
opposite  at  times,  and  a few  sly,  malicious  questions 
about  .the  old  boys  ” on  the  part  of  that  forward 
young  fellow  who  has  figured  occasionally,  not  always 
to  his  advantage,  in  these  reports. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  in  obedience  to  a feeling  I 
am  not  ashamed  of,  I have  always  tried  to  give  a more 
appropriate  character  to  our  conversation.  I have 
never  read  them  my  sermon  yet,  and  I don’t  know 
that  I shall,  as  some  of  them  might  take  my  convic- 
tions as  a personal  indignity  to  themselves.  But  hav- 
ing read  our  company  so  much  of  the  Professor’s  talk 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  175 

about  age  and  other  subjects  connected  with  physical 
life,  I took  the  next  Sunday  morning  to  repeat  to 
them  the  following  poem  of  his,  which  I have  had  by 
me  some  time.  He  calls  it  — I suppose  for  his  pro- 
fessional friends  — The  Anatomist’s  Hymn;  but  I 
shall  name  it  — ] 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 

Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 

Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 

With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 

And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 

Is  all  thy  Maker’s  glory  seen: 

Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 

Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush 
Fired  with  a new  and  livelier  blush, 

While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away. 

And  red  with  Nature’s  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throb]3ing  slave  may  ask, 

Forever  quivering  o’er  his  task. 

While  far  and  wide  a crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides. 

Then  kindling  each  decaying  part 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame. 

Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 


176 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 


And  linked  to  reason’s  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 

Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master’s  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 

Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound. 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round. 

Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds. 

That  feels  sensation’s  faintest  thrill 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 

Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells! 

The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  slender  glassy  threads ! 

O Father ! grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine ! 

When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all. 

And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall. 

Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms. 


VIII. 

[Spring  has  come.  You  will  find  some  verses  to 
that  effect  at  the  end  of  these  notes.  If  you  are  an 
impatient  reader,  skip  to  them  at  once.  In  reading 
aloud,  omit,  if  you  please,  the  sixth  and  seventh 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  177 

verses.  These  are  parenthetical  and  digressive,  and, 
unless  your  audience  is  of  superior  intelligence,  will 
confuse  them.  Many  people  can  ride  on  horseback 
who  find  it  hard  to  get  on  and  to  get  off  without  as- 
sistance. One  has  to  dismount  from  an  idea,  and  get 
into  the  saddle  again,  at  every  parenthesis.] 

— The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  :^ding  that 
spring  had  fairly  come,  mounted  a white  hat  one  day, 
and  walked  into  the  street.  It  seems  to  have  been  a 
premature  or  otherwise  exceptionable  exhibition,  not 
unlike  that  commemorated  by  the  late  Mr.  Bayly. 
When  the  old  gentleman  came  home,  he  looked  very 
red  in  the  face,  and  complained  that  he  had  been 

made  sport  of.”  By  sympathizing  questions,  I 
learned  from  him  that  a boy  had  called  him  old 
daddy,”  and  asked  him  when  he  had  his  hat  white- 
washed. 

This  incident  led  me  to  make  some  observations  at 
table  the  next  morning,  which  I here  repeat  for  the 
benefit  of  the  readers  of  this  record. 

— The  hat  is  the  vulnerable  point  of  the  artificial 
integument.  I learned  this  in  early  boyhood.  I was 
once  equipped  in  a hat  of  Leghorn  straw,  having  a 
brim  of  much  wider  dimensions  than  were  usual  at 
that  time,  and  sent  to  school  in  that  portion  of  my  na- 
tive town  which  lies  nearest  to  this  metropolis.  On 
my  way  I was  met  by  a Port-chuck,”  as  we  used  to 
call  the  young  gentlemen  of  that  locality,  and  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  ensued. 

The  Port-chuck.  Hullo,  You-sir,  joo  know  th’  wuz 
gon-to  be  a race  to-morrah  ? 

Myself.  No.  Who ’s  gon-to  run,  ’n’  wher ’s ’t  gon- 
to  be? 


12 


178  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


The  Port-chucTc.  Squire  Mycall  ’n’  Doctor  Wil- 
liams, round  the  brim  o’  your  hat. 

These  two  much-respected  gentlemen  being  the 
oldest  inhabitants  at  that  time,  and  the  alleged  race- 
course being  out  of  the  question,  the  Port-chuck  also 
winking  and  thrusting  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  I 
perceived  that  I had  been  trifled  with,  and  the  effect 
has  been  to  make  me  sensitive  and  observant  respect- 
ing this  article  of  dress  ever  since.  Here  is  an  axiom 
or  two  relating  to  it. 

A hat  which  has  been  popped^  or  exploded  by  being 
sat  down  upon,  is  never  itself  again  afterwards. 

It  is  a favorite  illusion  of  sanguine  natures  to  be- 
lieve the  contrary. 

Shabby  gentility  has  nothing  so  characteristic  as  its 
hat.  There  is  always  an  unnatural  calmness  about 
its  nap,  and  an  unwholesome  gloss,  suggestive  of  a 
wet  brush. 

The  last  effort  of  decayed  fortune  is  expended  in 
smoothing  its  dilapidated  castor.  The  hat  is  the  ulti~ 
mum  moriens  of  respectability.” 

— The  old  gentleman  took  all  these  remarks  and 
maxims  very  pleasantly,  saying,  however,  that  he  had 
forgotten  most  of  his  French  except  the  word  for  po- 
tatoes, — pummies  de  tare*  — Vltimum  moriens*,  I 
told  him,  is  old  Italian,  and  signifles  last  thing  to  die* 
With  this  explanation  he  was  well  contented,  and 
looked  quite  calm  when  I saw  him  afterwards  in  the 
entry  with  a black  hat  on  his  head  and  the  white  one 
in  his  hand. 

— I think  myself  fortunate  in  having  the  Poet  and 
the  Professor  for  my  intimates.  We  are  so  much  to- 
gether, that  we  no  doubt  think  and  talk  a good  deal 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  179 


alike ; yet  our  points  of  view  are  in  many  respects  in- 
dividual and  peculiar.  You  know  me  well  enough  by 
this  time.  I have  not  talked  with  you  so  long  for 
nothing  and  therefore  I don’t  think  it  necessary  to 
draw  my  own  portrait.  But  let  me  say  a word  or  two 
about  my  friends. 

The  Professor  considers  himself,  and  I consider 
him,  a very  useful  and  worthy  kind  of  drudge.  I 
think  he  has  a pride  in  his  small  technicalities.  I 
know  that  he  has  a great  idea  of  fidelity;  and 
though  I suspect  he  laughs  a little  inwardly  at  times, 
at  the  grand  airs  Science  ” puts  on,  as  she  stands 
marking  time,  but  not  getting  on,  while  the  trumpets 
are  blowing  and  the  big  drums  beating,  — yet  I am 
sure  he  has  a liking  for  his  specialty,  and  a respect  for 
its  cultivators. 

But  I ’ll  tell  you  what  the  Professor  said  to  the 
Poet  the  other  day.  — My  boy,  said  he,  I can  work  a 
great  deal  cheaper  than  you,  because  I keep  all  my 
goods  in  the  lower  story.  You  have  to  hoist  yours 
into  the  upper  chambers  of  the  brain,  and  let  them 
down  again  to  your  customers.  I take  mine  in  at  the 
level  of  the  ground,  and  send  them  off  from  my  door- 
step almost  without  lifting.  I tell  you,  the  higher  a 
man  has  to  carry  the  raw  material  of  thought  before 
he  works  it  up,  the  more  it  costs  him  in  blood,  nerve, 
and  muscle.  Coleridge  knew  all  this  very  well  when 
he  advised  every  literary  man  to  have  a profession. 

— Sometimes  I like  to  talk  with  one  of  them,  and 
sometimes  with  the  other.  After  a while  I get  tired 
of  both.  When  a fit  of  intellectual  disgust  comes  over 
me,  I will  tell  you  what  I have  found  admirable  as  a 
diversion,  in  addition  to  boating  and  other  amuse- 
ments which  I have  spoken  of,  — that  is^  working  at 


180  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

my  carpenter’s-bench.  Some  mechanical  employment 
is  the  greatest  possible  relief,  after  the  purely  in- 
tellectual faculties  begin  to  tire.  When  I was  quaran- 
tined once  at  Marseilles,  I got  to  work  immediately  at 
carving  a wooden  wonder  of  loose  rings  on  a stick,  and 
got  so  interested  in  it,  that,  when  we  were  let  out,  I 

regained  my  freedom  with  a sigh,”  because  my  toy 
was  unfinished. 

There  are  long  seasons  when  I talk  only  with  the 
Professor,  and  others  when  I give  myself  wholly  up 
to  the  Poet.  Now  that  my  winter’s  work  is  over  and 
spring  is  with  us,  I feel  naturally  drawn  to  the  Poet’s 
company.  I don’t  know  anybody  more  alive  to  life 
than  he  is.  The  passion  of  poetry  seizes  on  him  every 
spring,  he  says,  — yet  oftentimes  he  complains,  that 
when  he  feels  most,  he  can  sing  least. 

Then  a fit  of  despondency  comes  over  him.  — I feel 
ashamed  sometimes,  — said  he,  the  other  day,  — to 
think  how  far  my  worst  songs  fall  below  my  best.  It 
sometimes  seems  to  me,  as  I know  it  does  to  others 
who  have  told  me  so,  that  they  ought  to  be  all  hest^  — 
if  not  in  actual  execution,  at  least  in  plan  and  motive. 
I am  grateful  — he  continued  — for  all  such  criti- 
cisms. A man  is  always  pleased  to  have  his  most  seri- 
ous efforts  praised,  and  the  highest  aspect  of  his  na- 
ture get  the  most  sunshine. 

Yet  I am  sure,  that,  in  the  nature  of  things,  many 
minds  must  change  their  key  now  and  then,  on  pen- 
alty of  getting  out  of  tune  or  losing  their  voices.  You 
know,  I suppose,  — he  said,  — what  is  meant  by  com- 
plementary colors?  You  know  the  effect,  too,  which 
the  prolonged  impression  of  any  one  color  has  on  the 
retina.  If  you  close  your  eyes  after  looking  steadily 
at  a red  object,  you  see  a green  image. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  181 

It  is  SO  with  many  minds,  — I will  not  say  with  all. 
After  looking  at  one  aspect  of  external  nature,  or  of 
any  form  of  beauty  or  truth,  when  they  turn  away, 
the  complementary  aspect  of  the  same  object  stamps 
itself  irresistibly  and  automatically  upon  the  mind. 
Shall  they  give  expression  to  this  secondary  mental 
state,  or  not  ? 

When  I contemplate  — said  my  friend,  the  Poet  — 
the  infinite  largeness  of  comprehension  belonging  to 
the  Central  Intelligence,  how  remote  the  creative  con- 
ception is  from  all  scholastic  and  ethical  formulae,  I 
am  led  to  think  that  a healthy  mind  ought  to  change 
its  mood  from  time  to  time,  and  come  down  from  its 
noblest  condition,  — never,  of  course,  to  degrade  it- 
self by  dwelling  upon  what  is  itself  debasing,  but  to 
let  its  lower  faculties  have  a chance  to  air  and  exercise 
themselves.  After  the  first  and  second  fioor  have  been 
out  in  the  bright  street  dressed  in  all  their  splendors, 
shall  not  our  humble  friends  in  the  basement  have 
their  holiday,  and  the  cotton  velvet  and  the  thin- 
skinned  jewelry  — simple  adornments,  but  befitting 
the  station  of  those  who  wear  them  — show  them- 
selves to  the  crowd,  who  think  them  beautiful,  as  they 
ought  to,  though  the  people  up-stairs  know  that  they 
are  cheap  and  perishable  ? 

— I don’t  know  that  I may  not  bring  the  Poet 
here,  some  day  or  other,  and  let  him  speak  for  him- 
self. Still  I think  I can  tell  you  what  he  says  quite 
as  well  as  he  could  do  it.  — Oh,  — he  said  to  me,  one 
day,  — I am  but  a hand-organ  man,  — say  rather,  a 
hand-organ.  Life  turns  the  winch,  and  fancy  or  ac- 
cident pulls  out  the  stops.  I come  under  your  win- 
dows, some  fine  spring  morning,  and  play  you  one  of 
my  adagio  movements,  and  some  of  you  say,  — This 


182  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

is  good,  — play  Bs  SO  always.  But,  dear  friends,  if  1 
did  not  change  the  stop  sometimes,  the  machine  would 
wear  out  in  one  part  and  rust  in  another.  How  easily 
this  or  that  tune  flows ! — you  say,  — there  must  be 
no  end  of  just  such  melodies  in  him.  — I will  open 
the  poor  machine  for  you  one  moment,  and  you  shall 
look.  — Ah ! Every  note  marks  where  a spur  of 
steel  has  been  driven  in.  It  is  easy  to  grind  out  the 
song,  but  to  plant  these  bristling  points  which  make  it 
was  the  painful  task  of  time. 

I don’t  like  to  say  it,  — he  continued,  — but  poets 
commonly  have  no  larger  stock  of  tunes  than  hand- 
organs;  and  when  you  hear  them  piping  up  under 
your  window,  you  know  pretty  well  what  to  expect. 
The  more  stops,  the  better.  Do  let  them  all  be  pulled 
out  in  their  turn  ! 

So  spoke  my  friend,  the  Poet,  and  read  me  one  of 
his  stateliest  songs,  and  after  it  a gay  chanson^  and 
then  a string  of  epigrams.  All  true,  — he  said,  — 
all  flowers  of  his  soul;  only  one  with  the  corolla 
spread,  and  another  with  its  disk  half  opened,  and  the 
third  with  the  heart-leaves  covered  up  and  only  a 
petal  or  two  showing  its  tip  through  the  calyx.  The 
water-lily  is  the  type  of  the  poet’s  soul,  — he  told  me. 

— What  do  you  think.  Sir,  — said  the  divinity- 
student,  — opens  the  souls  of  poets  most  fully  ? 

Why,  there  must  be  the  internal  force  and  the  ex- 
ternal stimulus.  Neither  is  enough  by  itself.  A rose 
will  not  flower  in  the  dark,  and  a fern  will  not  flower 
anywhere. 

What  do  I think  is  the  true  sunshine  that  opens 
the  poet’s  corolla?  — I don’t  like  to  say.  They  spoil 
a good  many,  I am  afraid ; or  at  least  they  shine  on  a 
good  many  that  never  come  to  anything. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  183 

Who  are  they  f — said  the  schoolmistress. 

Women.  Their  love  first  inspires  the  poet,  and 
their  praise  is  his  best  reward. 

The  schoolmistress  reddened  a little,  but  looked 
pleased.  — Did  I really  think  so  ? — I do  think  so ; I 
never  feel  safe  until  I have  pleased  them;  I don’t 
think  they  are  the  first  to  see  one’s  defects,  but  they 
are  the  first  to  catch  the  color  and  fragrance  of  a true 
poem.  Fit  the  same  intellect  to  a man  and  it  is  a 
bow-string,  — to  a woman  and  it  is  a harp-string. 
She  is  vibratile  and  resonant  all  over,  so  she  stirs  with 
slighter  musical  tremblings  of  the  air  about  her.  — 
Ah,  me ! — said  my  friend,  the  Poet,  to  me,  the  other 
day,- — what  color  would  it  not  have  given  to  my 
thoughts,  and  what  thrice-washed  whiteness  to  my 
words,  had  I been  fed  on  women’s  praises ! I should 
have  grown  like  Marvell’s  fawn,  — 

‘‘  Lilies  without;  roses  within ! ’’ 

But  then, — he  added, — we  all  think,  if  so  and  so,  we 
should  have  been  this  or  that,  as  you  were  saying  the 
other  day,  in  those  rhymes  of  yours. 

— I don’t  think  there  are  many  poets  in  the  sense 
of  creators ; but  of  those  sensitive  natures  which  reflect 
themselves  naturally  in  soft  and  melodious  words, 
pleading  for  sympathy  with  their  joys  and  sorrows, 
every  literature  is  full.  Nature  carves  with  her  own 
hands  the  brain  which  holds  the  creative  imagination, 
but  she  casts  the  over-sensitive  creatures  in  scores 
from  the  same  mould. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  poets,  just  as  there  are  two 
kinds  of  blondes.  [Movement  of  curiosity  among  our 
ladies  at  table.  — Please  to  tell  us  about  those  blondes, 
said  the  schoolmistress.]  Why,  there  are  blondes 


184  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

who  are  such  simply  by  deficiency  of  coloring  matter, 
— negative  or  washed  blondes,  arrested  by  Nature  on 
the  way  to  become  albinesses.  There  are  others  that 
are  shot  through  with  golden  light,  with  tawny  or  ful- 
vous tinges  in  various  degree,  — positive  or  stained 
blondes,  dipped  in  yellow  sunbeams,  and  as  unlike  in 
their  mode  of  being  to  the  others  as  an  orange  is  un- 
like a snowball.  The  albino-style  carries  with  it  a 
wide  pupil  and  a sensitive  retina.  The  other,  or  the 
leonine  blonde,  has  an  opaline  fire  in  her  clear  eye, 
which  the  brunette  can  hardly  match  with  her  quick 
glittering  glances. 

Just  so  we  have  the  great  sun-kindled,  constructive 
imaginations,  and  a far  more  numerous  class  of  poets 
who  have  a certain  kind  of  moonlight-genius  given 
them  to  compensate  for  their  imperfection  of  nature. 
Their  want  of  mental  coloring-matter  makes  them 
sensitive  to  those  impressions  which  stronger  minds 
neglect  or  never  feel  at  all.  Many  of  them  die  young, 
and  all  of  them  are  tinged  with  melancholy.  There 
is  no  more  beautiful  illustration  of  the  principle  of 
compensation  which  marks  the  Divine  benevolence 
than  the  fact  that  some  of  the  holiest  lives  and  some 
of  the  sweetest  songs  are  the  growth  of  the  infirmity 
which  unfits  its  subject  for  the  rougher  duties  of  life. 
When  one  reads  the  life  of  Cowper,  or  of  Keats,  or 
of  Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson,  — of  so  many 
gentle,  sweet  natures,  born  to  weakness,  and  mostly 
dying  before  their  time,  — one  cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  human  race  dies  out  singing,  like  the  swan  in 
the  old  story.  The  French  poet,  Gilbert,  who  died  at 
the  H8tel  Dieu,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  — (killed 
by  a key  in  his  throat,  which  he  had  swallowed  v/hen 
delirious  in  consequence  of  a fall),  — this  poor  fellow 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  185 


was  a very  good  example  of  the  poet  by  excess  of 
sensibility.  I found,  the  other  day,  that  some  of  my 
literary  friends  had  never  heard  of  him,  though  I 
suppose  few  educated  Frenchmen  do  not  know  the 
lines  which  he  wrote,  a week  before  his  death,  upon  a 
mean  bed  in  the  great  hospital  of  Paris. 

“ Au  banquet  de  la  vie,  infortune  convive 
J^apparus  un  jour,  et  je  meurs; 

Je  meurs,  et  sur  ma  tombe,  oil  lentement  j ’arrive 
Nul  ne  viendra  verser  des  pleurs.” 

At  life’s  gay  banquet  placed,  a poor  unhappy  guest, 

One  day  I pass,  then  disappear ; 

I die,  and  on  the  tomb  where  I at  length  shall  rest 
No  friend  shall  come  to  shed  a tear. 

You  remember  the  same  thing  in  other  words  some- 
where in  Kirke  White’s  poems.  It  is  the  burden  of 
the  plaintive  songs  of  all  these  sweet  albino-poets.  I 
shall  die  and  be  forgotten,  and  the  world  will  go  on 
just  as  if  I had  never  been ; — and  yet  how  I have 
loved  1 how  I have  longed ! how  I have  aspired ! ” 
And  so  singing,  their  eyes  grow  brighter  and  brighter, 
and  their  features  thinner  and  thinner,  until  at  last 
the  veil  of  flesh  is  threadbare,  and,  still  singing,  they 
drop  it  and  pass  onward. 

— Our  brains  are  seventy-year  clocks.  The  Angel 
of  Life  winds  them  up  once  for  all,  then  closes  the 
case,  and  gives  the  key  into  the  hand  of  the  Angel  of 
the  Resurrection. 

Tic-tac  ! tic-tac ! go  the  wheels  of  thought ; our  will 
cannot  stop  them ; they  cannot  stop  themselves  ; sleep 
cannot  still  them ; madness  only  makes  them  go 
faster ; death  alone  can  break  into  the  case,  and,  seiz- 


186  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

mg  the  ever-swinging  pendulum,  which  we  call  the 
heart,  silence  at  last  the  clicking  of  the  terrible  es- 
capement we  have  carried  so  long  beneath  our  wrin- 
kled foreheads. 

If  we  could  only  get  at  them,  as  we  lie  on  our  pil- 
lows and  count  the  dead  beats  of  thought  after  thought 
and  image  after  image  jarring  through  the  overtired 
organ ! Will  nobody  block  those  wheels,  uncouple 
that  pinion,  cut  the  string  that  holds  those  weights, 
blow  up  the  infernal  machine  with  gunpowder?  What 
a passion  comes  over  us  sometimes  for  silence  and 
rest ! — that  this  dreadful  mechanism,  unwinding  the 
endless  tapestry  of  time,  embroidered  with  spectral 
figures  of  life  and  death,  could  have  but  one  brief  hol- 
iday ! Who  can  wonder  that  men  swing  themselves 
off  from  beams  in  hempen  lassos  ? — that  they  jump 
off  from  parapets  into  the  swift  and  gurgling  waters 
beneath  ? — that  they  take  counsel  of  the  grim  friend 
who  has  but  to  utter  his  one  peremptory  monosyllable 
and  the  restless  machine  is  shivered  as  a vase  that  is 
dashed  upon  a marble  floor?  Under  that  building 
which  we  pass  every  day  there  are  strong  dungeons, 
where  neither  hook,  nor  bar,  nor  bed-cord,  nor  drink- 
ing-vessel from  which  a sharp  fragment  may  be  shat- 
tered, shall  by  any  chance  be  seen.  There  is  nothing 
for  it,  when  the  brain  is  on  fire  with  the  whirling  of  its 
wheels,  but  to  spring  against  the  stone  wall  and  silence 
them  with  one  crash.  Ah,  they  remembered  that,  — 
the  kind  city  fathers,  — and  the  walls  are  nicely  pad- 
ded, so  that  one  can  take  such  exercise  as  he  likes 
without  damaging  himself  on  the  very  plain  and  ser- 
viceable upholstery.  If  anybody  would  only  contrive 
some  kind  of  a lever  that  one  could  thrust  in  among 
the  works  of  this  horrid  automaton  and  check  them, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  187 

or  alter  their  rate  of  going,  what  would  the  world  give 
for  the  discovery  ? 

— From  half  a dime  to  a dime,  according  to  the 
style  of  the  place  and  the  quality  of  the  liquor,  — said 
the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John. 

You  speak  trivially,  but  not  unwisely,  — I said. 
Unless  the  will  maintain  a certain  control  over  these 
movements,  which  it  cannot  stop,  but  can  to  some  ex- 
tent regulate,  men  are  very  apt  to  try  to  get  at  the 
machine  by  some  indirect  system  of  leverage  or  other. 
They  clap  on  the  brakes  by  means  of  opium  ; they 
change  the  maddening  monotony  of  the  rhythm  by 
means  of  fermented  liquors.  It  is  because  the  brain 
is  locked  up  and  we  cannot  touch  its  movement  di- 
rectly, that  we  thrust  these  coarse  tools  in  through  any 
crevice,  by  which  they  may  reach  the  interior,  and  so 
alter  its  rate  of  going  for  a while,  and  at  last  spoil  the 
machine. 

Men  who  exercise  chiefly  those  faculties  of  the  mind 
which  work  independently  of  the  will,  — poets  and 
artists,  for  instance,  who  follow  their  imagination  in 
their  creative  moments,  instead  of  keeping  it  in  hand 
as  your  logicians  and  practical  men  do  with  their 
reasoning  faculty,  — such  men  are  too  apt  to  call  in 
the  mechanical  appliances  to  help  them  govern  their 
intellects. 

— He  means  they  get  drimk,  — said  the  young  fel- 
low already  alluded  to  by  name. 

Do  you  think  men  of  true  genius  are  apt  to  indulge 
in  the  use  of  inebriating  fluids  ? — said  the  divinity- 
student. 

If  you  think  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear  what  I 
am  going  to  say,  — I replied,  — I wiU  talk  to  you 
about  this.  But  mind,  now,  these  are  the  things  that 


188  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

some  foolish  people,  call  dangerous  subjects,  — as  if 
these  vices  which  burrow  into  people’s  souls,  as  the 
Guinea-worm  burrows  into  the  naked  feet  of  West- 
Indian  slaves,  would  be  more  mischievous  when  seen 
than  out  of  sight.  Now  the  true  way  to  deal  with 
those  obstinate  animals,  which  are  a dozen  feet  long, 
some  of  them,  and  no  bigger  than  a horse  hair,  is  to 
get  a piece  of  silk  round  their  heads^  and  pull  them 
out  very  cautiously.  If  you  only  break  them  off,  they 
grow  worse  than  ever,  and  sometimes  kill  the  person 
who  has  the  misfortune  to  harbor  one  of  them. 
Whence  it  is  plain  that  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  find 
out  where  the  head  lies. 

Just  so  of  all  the  vices,  and  particularly  of  this  vice 
of  intemperance.  What  is  the  head  of  it,  and  where 
does  it  lie  ? For  you  may  depend  upon  it,  there  is  not 
one  of  these  vices  that  has  not  a head  of  its  own,  — 
an  intelligence,  — a meaning,  — a certain  virtue,  I 
was  going  to  say,  — but  that  might,  perhaps,  sound 
paradoxical.  I have  heard  an  immense  number  of 
moral  physicians  lay  down  the  treatment  of  moral 
Guinea-worms,  and  the  vast  majority  of  them  would 
always  insist  that  the  creature  had  no  head  at  all,  but 
was  all  body  and  tail.  So  I have  found  a very  com- 
mon result  of  their  method  to  be  that  the  string 
slipped,  or  that  a piece  only  of  the  creature  was 
broken  off,  and  the  worm  soon  grew  again,  as  bad  as 
ever.  The  truth  is,  if  the  Devil  could  only  appear  in 
church  by  attorney,  and  make  the  best  statement  that 
the  facts  would  bear  him  out  in  doing  on  behalf  of  his 
special  virtues  (what  we  commonly  call  vices),  the  in- 
fluence of  good  teachers  would  be  much  greater  than 
it  is.  For  the  arguments  by  which  the  Devil  prevails 
are  precisely  the  ones  that  the  Devil-queller  most 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  189 

rarely  answers.  The  way  to  argue  down  a vice  is  not 
to  tell  lies  about  it,  — to  say  that  it  has  no  attractions, 
when  everybody  knows  that  it  has,  — but  rather  to  let 
it  make  out  its  case  just  as  it  certainly  will  in  the  mo- 
ment of  temptation,  and  then  meet  it  with  the  weapons 
furnished  by  the  Divine  armory.  Ithuriel  did  not  spit 
the  toad  on  his  spear,  you  remember,  but  touched  him 
with  it,  and  the  blasted  angel  took  the  sad  glories  of 
his  true  shape.  If  he  had  shown  fight  then,  the 
fair  spirits  would  have  known  how  to  deal  with  him. 

That  all  spasmodic  cerebral  action  is  an  evil  is  not 
perfectly  clear.  Men  get  fairly  intoxicated  with  mu- 
sic, with  poetry,  with  religious  excitement,  — oftenest 
with  love.  Ninon  de  I’Enclos  said  she  was  so  easily 
excited  that  her  soup  intoxicated  her,  and  convalescents 
have  been  made  tipsy  by  a beef-steak. 

There  are  forms  and  stages  of  alcoholic  exaltation 
which,  in  themselves,  and  without  regard  to  their  con- 
sequences, might  be  considered  as  positive  improve- 
ments of  the  persons  affected.  When  the  sluggish  in- 
tellect is  roused,  the  slow  speech  quickened,  the  cold 
nature  warmed,  the  latent  sympathy  developed,  the 
flagging  spirit  kindled,  — before  the  trains  of  thought 
become  confused,  or  the  will  perverted,  or  the  muscles 
relaxed,  — just  at  the  moment  when  the  whole  human 
zoophyte  flowers  out  like  a full-blown  rose,  and  is  ripe 
for  the  subscription-paper  or  the  contribution-box,  — 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  that  a man  was,  at  that  very 
time,  worse,  or  less  to  be  loved,  than  when  driving  a 
hard  bargain  with  all  his  meaner  wits  about  him. 
The  difficulty  is,  that  the  alcoholic  virtues  don’t  wash ; 
but  until  the  water  takes  their  colors  out,  the  tints  are 
very  much  like  those  of  the  true  celestial  stuff. 

[Here  I was  interrupted  by  a question  which  I am 


190  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

very  unwilling  to  report,  but  have  confidence  enough 
in  those  friends  who  examine  these  records  to  commit 
to  their  candor. 

A person  at  table  asked  me  whether  I ‘‘went  in  for 
rum  as  a steady  drink  ? ” — His  manner  made  the 
question  highly  offensive,  but  I restrained  myself,  and 
answered  thus  : — ] 

Rum  I take  to  be  the  name  which  unwashed  mor- 
alists apply  alike  to  the  product  distilled  from  mo- 
lasses and  the  noblest  juices  of  the  vineyard.  Bur- 
gundy “ in  all  its  sunset  glow”  is  rum.  Champagne, 
soul  of  “ the  foaming  grape  of  Eastern  France,”  is 
rum.  Hock,  which  our  friend,  the  Poet,  speaks  of  as 
“ The  Rhine’s  breastmilk,  gushing  cold  and  bright, 

Pale  as  the  moon,  and  maddening  as  her  light,” 

is  rum.  Sir,  I repudiate  the  loathsome  vulgarism  as 
an  insult  to  the  first  miracle  wrought  by  the  Founder 
of  our  religion ! I address  myself  to  the  company.  — 
I believe  in  temperance,  nay,  almost  in  abstinence,  as 
a rule  for  healthy  people.  I trust  that  I practice 
both.  But  let  me  tell  you,  there  are  companies  of 
men  of  genius  into  which  I sometimes  go,  where  the 
atmosphere  of  intellect  and  sentiment  is  so  much  more 
stimulating  than  alcohol,  that,  if  I thought  fit  to  take 
wine,  it  would  be  to  keep  me  sober. 

Among  the  gentlemen  that  I have  known,  few,  if 
any,  were  ruined  by  drinking.  My  few  drunken  ac- 
quaintances were  generally  ruined  before  they  became 
drunkards.  The  habit  of  drinking  is  often  a vice,  no 
doubt,  — sometimes  a misfortune,  — as  when  an  al- 
most irresistible  hereditary  propensity  exists  to  in- 
dulge in  it,  — but  oftenest  of  all  a punishment. 

Empty  heads,  — heads  without  ideas  in  wholesome 
variety  and  sufficient  number  to  furnish  food  for  the 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  191 

mental  clockwork,  — ill-regulated  heads,  where  the 
faculties  are  not  under  the  control  of  the  will,  — these 
are  the  ones  that  hold  the  brains  which  their  owners 
are  so  apt  to  tamper  with,  by  introducing  the  appli- 
ances we  have  been  talking  about.  Now,  when  a 
gentleman’s  brain  is  empty  or  ill-regulated,  it  is,  to  a 
great  extent,  his  own  fault ; and  so  it  is  simple  retri- 
bution, that,  while  he  lies  slotlifully  sleeping  or  aim- 
lessly dreaming,  the  fatal  habit  settles  on  him  like  a 
vampire,  and  sucks  his  blood,  fanning  him  all  the 
while  with  its  hot  wings  into  deeper  slumber  or  idler 
dreams ! I am  not  such  a hard-souled  being  as  to 
apply  this  to  the  neglected  poor,  who  have  had  no 
chance  to  fill  their  heads  with  wholesome  ideas,  and 
to  be  taught  the  lesson  of  seK-government.  I trust  the 
tariff  of  Heaven  has  an  ad  valorem  scale  for  them,  — 
and  all  of  us. 

But  to  come  back  to  poets  and  artists;  — if  they 
really  are  more  prone  to  the  abuse  of  stimulants,  — 
and  I fear  that  this  is  true,  — the  reason  of  it  is  only 
too  clear.  A man  abandons  himself  to  a fine  frenzy, 
and  the  power  which  flows  through  him,  as  I once  ex- 
plained to  you,  makes  him  the  medium  of  a great 
poem  or  a great  picture.  The  creative  action  is  not 
voluntary  at  all,  but  automatic ; we  can  only  put  the 
mind  into  the  proper  attitude,  and  wait  for  the  wind, 
that  blows  where  it  listeth,  to  breathe  over  it.  Thus 
the  true  state  of  creative  genius  is  allied  to  reverie^ 
or  dreaming.  If  mind  and  body  were  both  healthy  and 
had  food  enough  and  fair  play,  I doubt  whether  any 
men  would  be  more  temperate  than  the  imaginative 
classes.  But  body  and  mind  often  flag,  — perhaps 
they  are  ill-made  to  begin  with,  underfed  with  bread 
or  ideas,  overworked,  or  abused  in  some  way.  The 


192  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

automatic  action,  by  which  genius  wrought  its  won- 
ders, fails.  There  is  only  one  thing  which  can  rouse 
the  machine  ; not  will,  — that  cannot  reach  it,  nothing 
but  a ruinous  agent,  which  hurries  the  wheels  a while 
and  soon  eats  out  the  heart  of  the  mechanism.  The 
dreaming  faculties  are  always  the  dangerous  ones,  be- 
cause their  mode  of  action  can  be  imitated  by  artificial 
excitement ; the  reasoning  ones  are  safe,  because  they 
imply  continued  voluntary  effort. 

I think  you  will  find  it  true,  that,  before  any  vice 
can  fasten  on  a man,  body,  mind,  or  moral  nature 
must  be  debilitated.  The  mosses  and  fungi  gather  on 
sickly  trees,  not  thriving  ones  ; and  the  odious  para- 
sites which  fasten  on  the  human  frame  choose  that 
which  is  already  enfeebled.  Mr.  TV^alker,  the  hygeian 
hmnorist,  declared  that  he  had  such  a healthy  skin  it 
was  impossible  for  any  impurity  to  stick  to  it,  and 
maintained  that  it  was  an  absurdity  to  wash  a face 
which  was  of  necessity  always  clean.  I don’t  know 
how  much  fancy  there  was  in  this ; but  there  is  no 
fancy  in  saying  that  the  lassitude  of  tired-out  opera- 
tives, and  the  languor  of  imaginative  natures  in  their 
periods  of  collapse,  and  the  vacuity  of  minds  untrained 
to  labor  and  discipline,  fit  the  soul  and  body  for  the 
germination  of  the  seeds  of  intemperance. 

Whenever  the  wandering  demon  of  Drunkenness 
finds  a ship  adrift,  — no  steady  wind  in  its  sails,  no 
thoughtful  pilot  directing  its  course,  — he  steps  on 
board,  takes  the  helm,  and  steers  straight  for  the 
maelstrom. 

— I wonder  if  you  know  the  terrible  smile  ? [The 
young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  winked  very  hard, 
and  made  a jocular  remark,  the  sense  of  which  seemed 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  193 


to  depend  on  some  double  meaning  of  the  word  smile. 
The  company  was  curious  to  know  what  I meant.] 

There  are  persons  — I said  — who  no  sooner  come 
within  sight  of  you  than  they  begin  to  smile,  with  an 
uncertain  movement  of  the  mouth,  which  conveys  the 
idea  that  they  are  thinking  about  themselves,  and 
thinking,  too,  that  you  are  thinking  they  are  think- 
ing about  themselves,  — and  so  look  at  you  with  a 
wretched  mixture  of  self-consciousness,  awkwardness, 
and  attempts  to  carry  off  both,  which  are  betrayed  by 
the  cowardly  behavior  of  the  eye  and  the  tell-tale 
weakness  of  the  lips  that  characterize  these  unfor- 
tunate beings. 

— Why  do  you  call  them  unfortunate.  Sir?  — asked 
the  divinity-student. 

Because  it  is  evident  that  the  consciousness  of  some 
imbecility  or  other  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  extraordi- 
nary expression.  I don’t  think,  however,  that  these 
persons  are  commonly  fools.  I have  known  a number, 
and  all  of  them  were  intelligent.  I think  nothing 
conveys  the  idea  of  underhr ceding  more  than  this 
self-betraying  smile.  Yet  I think  this  peculiar  habit 
as  well  as  that  of  meaningless  blushing  may  be  fallen 
into  by  very  good  people  who  meet  often,  or  sit  op- 
posite each  other  at  table.  A true  gentleman’s  face 
is  infinitely  removed  from  all  such  paltriness,  — calm- 
eyed, firm-mouthed.  I think  Titian  understood  the 
look  of  a gentleman  as  well  as  anybody  that  ever  lived. 
The  portrait  of  a young  man  holding  a glove  in  his 
hand,  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre,  if  any  of  you  have 
seen  that  collection,  will  remind  you  of  what  I mean. 

— Do  I think  these  people  know  the  peculiar  look 
they  have  ? — I cannot  say  ; I hope  not ; I am  afraid 
they  would  never  forgive  me,  if  they  did.  The  worst 

13 


194  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  it  is,  the  trick  is  catching ; when  one  meets  one  of 
these  fellows,  he  feels  a tendency  to  the  same  mani- 
festation. The  Professor  tells  me  there  is  a muscular 
slip,  a dependence  of  the  platysma  myoides^  which  is 
called  the  risorius  Santorini. 

— Say  that  once  more,  — exclaimed  the  young  fel- 
low mentioned  above. 

The  Professor  says  there  is  a little  fleshy  slip  called 
Santorini’s  laughing  muscle.  I would  have  it  cut 
out  of  my  face,  if  I were  born  with  one  of  those  con- 
stitutional grins  upon  it.  Perhaps  I am  uncharita- 
ble in  my  judgment  of  those  sour-looking  people  I 
told  you  of  the  other  day,  and  of  these  smiling  folks. 
It  may  be  that  they  are  born  with  these  looks,  as  other 
people  are  with  more  generally  recognized  deformities. 
Both  are  bad  enough,  but  I had  rather  meet  three  of 
the  scowlers  than  one  of  the  smilers. 

— There  is  another  unfortunate  way  of  looking, 
which  is  peculiar  to  that  amiable  sex  we  do  not  like  to 
find  fault  with.  There  are  some  very  pretty,  but,  un- 
happily, very  ill-bred  women,  who  don’t  understand 
the  law  of  the  road  with  regard  to  handsome  faces. 
Nature  and  custom  would,  no  doubt,  agree  in  conced- 
ing to  all  males  the  right  of  at  least  two  distinct  looks 
at  every  comely  female  countenance,  without  any  in- 
fraction of  the  rules  of  courtesy  or  the  sentiment  of 
respect.  The  first  look  is  necessary  to  define  the  per- 
son of  the  individual  one  meets  so  as  to  recognize  an 
acquaintance.  Any  unusual  attraction  detected  in  a 
first  glance  is  a sufficient  apology  for  a second,  — not 
a prolonged  and  impertinent  stare,  but  an  appreciating 
homage  of  the  eyes,  such  as  a stranger  may  inoffen- 
sively yield  to  a passing  image.  It  is  astonishing  how 
morbidly  sensitive  some  vulgar  beauties  are  to  the 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  195 

slightest  demonstration  of  this  kind.  When  a lady 
walks  the  streets,  she  leaves  her  virtuous-indignation 
countenance  at  home  ; she  knows  well  enough  that  the 
street  is  a picture-gallery,  where  pretty  faces  framed 
in  pretty  bonnets  are  meant  to  be  seen,  and  everybody 
has  a right  to  see  them. 

— When  we  observe  how  the  same  features  and 
style  of  person  and  character  descend  from  generation 
to  generation,  we  can  believe  that  some  inherited  weak- 
ness may  account  for  these  peculiarities.  Little  snap- 
ping-turtles snap  — so  the  great  naturalist  tells  us  — 
before  they  are  fairly  out  of  the  egg-shell.  I am  sat- 
isfied, that,  much  higher  up  in  the  scale  of  life,  char- 
acter is  distinctly  shown  at  the  age  of  — 2 or  — 3 
months. 

— My  friend,  the  Professor,  has  been  full  of  eggs 
lately.  [This  remark  excited  a burst  of  hilarity  which 
I did  not  allow  to  interrupt  the  course  of  my  observa- 
tions.] He  has  been  reading  the  great  book  where 
he  found  the  fact  about  the  little  snapping-turtles  men- 
tioned above.  Some  of  the  things  he  has  told  me  have 
suggested  several  odd  analogies  enough. 

There  are  half  a dozen  men,  or  so,  who  carry  in 
their  brains  the  ovarian  eggs  of  the  next  generation’s 
or  century’s  civilization.  These  eggs  are  not  ready  to 
be  laid  in  the  form  of  books  as  yet ; some  of  them  are 
hardly  ready  to  be  put  into  the  form  of  talk.  But  as 
rudimentary  ideas  or  inchoate  tendencies,  there  they 
are  ; and  these  are  what  must  form  the  future.  A 
man’s  general  notions  are  not  good  for  much,  unless 
he  has  a crop  of  these  intellectual  ovarian  eggs  in  his 
own  brain,  or  knows  them  as  they  exist  in  the  minds 
of  others.  One  must  be  in  the  Jiahit  of  talking  with 
such  persons  to  get  at  these  rudimentary  germs  of 


196  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

thought ; for  their  development  is  necessarily  imper- 
fect, and  they  are  moulded  on  new  patterns,  which 
must  be  long  and  closely  studied.  But  these  are  the 
men  to  talk  with.  No  fresh  truth  ever  gets  into  a 
book. 

— A good  many  fresh  lies  get  in,  anyhow,  — said 
one  of  the  company. 

I proceeded  in  spite  of  the  interruption.  — All  ut- 
tered thought,  my  friend,  the  Professor,  says,  is  of  the 
nature  of  an  excretion.  Its  materials  have  been  taken 
in,  and  have  acted  upon  the  system,  and  been  reacted 
on  by  it ; it  has  circulated  and  done  its  oflEice  in  one 
mind  before  it  is  given  out  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
It  may  be  milk  or  venom  to  other  minds;  but,  in 
either  case,  it  is  something  which  the  producer  has 
had  the  use  of  and  can  part  with.  A man  instinct- 
ively tries  to  get  rid  of  his  thought  in  conversation  or 
in  print  so  soon  as  it  is  matured  ; but  it  is  hard  to  get 
at  it  as  it  lies  imbedded,  a mere  potentiality,  the  germ 
of  a germ,  in  his  intellect. 

— Where  are  the  brains  that  are  fullest  of  these 
ovarian  eggs  of  thought  ? — I decline  mentioning  in- 
dividuals. The  producers  of  thought,  who  are  few, 
the  ‘‘  jobbers  ” of  thought,  who  are  many,  and  the  re- 
tailers of  thought,  who  are  numberless,  are  so  mixed 
up  in  the  popular  apprehension,  that  it  would  be  hope- 
less to  try  to  separate  them  before  opinion  has  had 
time  to  settle.  Follow  the  course  of  opinion  on  the 
great  subjects  of  human  interest  for  a few  generations 
or  centuries,  get  its  parallax,  map  out  a small  arc  of 
its  movement,  see  where  it  tends,  and  then  see  who  is 
in  advance  of  it  or  even  with  it ; the  world  calls  him 
hard  names,  probably ; but  if  you  would  find  the  O'ra 
of  the  future,  you  must  look  into  the  folds  of  his  cere- 
bral convolutions. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  197 


[The  divinity-student  looked  a little  puzzled  at  this 
suggestion,  as  if  he  did  not  see  exactly  where  he  was 
to  come  out,  if  he  computed  his  arc  too  nicely.  I 
think  it  possible  it  might  cut  off  a few  corners  of  his 
present  belief,  as  it  has  cut  off  martyr-burning  and 
witch-hanging ; — but  time  will  show,  — time  will 
show,  as  the  old  gentleman  opposite  says.] 

— Oh, — here  is  that  copy  of  verses  I told  you 
about. 

SPRING  HAS  COME. 

Intra  Muros, 

' The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays 

For  dry  Northwesters  cold  and  clear, 

The  East  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop’s  bells  are  seen, 

Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip’s  horn  of  dusky  green, 

The  peony’s  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden- chaliced  crocus  burns; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear; 

The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns. 

And  lights  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow’s  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung. 

Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 

Wide  o’er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

— [See  the  proud  tulip’s  flaunting  cup, 

That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Behold  it  withering,  — then  look  up,  — 

Ho<7  meek  the  forest-monarches  flower ! — 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds.  Spring  is  near; 

When  lilacs  blossom.  Summer  cries, 

“ Bud,  little  roses!  Spring  is  here! 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 

Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 

Pink  as  Aurora^ s finger-tips. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty^ s changed  corolla-shades,  — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide, 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 

Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer’s  awkward  string. 

With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Rough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 

In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 

— Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side. 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  I 

I hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 

The  thrush’s  trill,  the  cat- bird’s  cry. 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

Oh  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  — 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen. 

To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below! 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  199 


IX. 

\^Aqui  estd  encerrada  el  alma  del  licenciado  Pedro 
Garcias. 

If  I should  ever  make  a little  book  out  of  these 
papers,  which  I hope  you  are  not  getting  tired  of,  I 
suppose  I ought  to  save  the  above  sentence  for  a motto 
on  the  title-page.  But  I want  it  now,  and  must  use 
it.  I need  not  say  to  you  that  the  words  are  Spanish, 
nor  that  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  short  Introduction ' 
to  Gil  Bias,”  nor  that  they  mean,  Here  lies  buried 
the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro  Garcias.” 

I warned  all  young  people  off  the  premises  when 
I began  my  notes  referring  to  old  age.  I must  be 
equally  fair  with  old  people  now.  They  are  earnestly 
requested  to  leave  this  paper  to  young  persons  from 
the  age  of  twelve  to  that  of  four-score  years  and  ten, 
at  which  latter  period  of  life  I am  sure  that  I shall 
have  at  least  one  youthful  reader.  You  know  well 
enough  what  I mean  by  youth  and  age  ; — something 
in  the  soul,  which  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  color  of 
the  hair  than  the  vein  of  gold  in  a rock  has  to  do  with 
the  grass  a thousand  feet  above  it. 

I am  growing  bolder  as  I write.  I think  it  requires 
not  only  youth,  but  genius,  to  read  this  paper.  I don’t 
mean  to  imply  that  it  required  any  whatsover  to  talk 
what  I have  here  written  down.  It  did  demand  a 
certain  amount  of  memory,  and  such  command  of  the 
English  tongue  as  is  given  by  a common  school  educa- 
tion. So  much  I do  claim.  But  here  I have  related, 
at  length,  a string  of  trivialities.  You  must  have  the 
imagination  of  a poet  to  transfigure  them.  These  lit- 
tle colored  patches  are  stains  upon  the  windows  of  a 


200  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

human  soul ; stand  on  the  outside,  they  are  but  dull 
and  meaningless  spots  of  color ; seen  from  within,  they 
are  glorified  shapes  with  empurpled  wings  and  sun- 
bright  aureoles. 

My  hand  trembles  when  I offer  you  this.  Many 
times  I have  come  bearing  flowers  such  as  my  garden 
grew ; but  now  I offer  you  this  poor,  brown,  homely 
growth,  you  may  cast  it  away  as  worthless.  And  yet, 
— and  yet,  — it  is  something  better  than  flowers ; it  is 
a seed-capsule.  Many  a gardener  will  cut  you  a bou- 
quet of  his  choicest  blossoms  for  small  fee,  but  he  does 
not  love  to  let  the  seeds  of  his  rarest  varieties  go  out 
of  his  own  hands. 

It  is  by  little  things  that  we  know  ourselves ; a soul 
would  very  probably  mistake  itself  for  another,  when 
once  disembodied,  were  it  not  for  individual  experi- 
ences which  differ  from  those  of  others  only  in  details 
seemingly  trifling.  All  of  us  have  been  thirsty  thou- 
sands of  times,  and  felt,  with  Pindar,  that  water  was 
the  best  of  things.  I alone,  as  I think,  of  all  mankind, 
remember  one  particular  pailful  of  water,  flavored 
with  the  white-pine  of  which  the  pail  was  made,  and 
the  brown  mug  out  of  which  one  Edmund,  a red-faced 
and  curly-haired  boy,  was  averred  to  have  bitten  a 
fragment  in  his  haste  to  drink;  it  being  then  high 
summer,  and  little  full-blooded  boys  feeling  very  warm 
and  porous  in  the  low-“  studded  ” school-room  where 
Dame  Prentiss,  dead  and  gone,  ruled  over  young  chil- 
dren, many  of  whom  are  old  ghosts  now,  and  have 
known  Abraham  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  of  our  mor- 
tal time. 

Thirst  belongs  to  humanity,  everywhere,  in  all  ages ; 
but  that  white-pine  pail,  and  that  brown  mug  belong 
to  me  in  particular;  and  just  so  of  my  special  relation- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  201 

ships  with  other  things  and  with  my  race.  One  could 
never  remember  himself  in  eternity  by  the  mere  fact 
of  having  loved  or  hated  any  more  than  by  that  of 
having  thirsted ; love  and  hate  have  no  more  individu- 
ality in  them  than  single  waves  in  the  ocean ; — but 
the  accidents  or  trivial  marks  which  distinguished 
those  whom  we  loved  or  hated  make  their  memory 
our  own  forever,  and  with  it  that  of  our  own  person- 
ality also. 

Therefore,  my  aged  friend  of  five-and-twenty,  or 
thereabouts,  pause  at  the  threshold  of  this  particular 
record,  and  ask  yourself  seriously  whether  you  are  fit 
to  read  such  revelations  as  are  to  follow.  For  observe, 
you  have  here  no  splendid  array  of  petals  such  as 
poets  offer  you, — nothing  but  a dry  shell,  containing, 
if  you  will  get  out  what  is  in  it,  a few  small  seeds  of 
poems.  You  may  laugh  at  them,  if  you  like.  I shall 
never  tell  you  what  I think  of  you  for  so  doing.  But 
if  you  can  read  into  the  heart  of  these  things,  in  the 
light  of  other  memories  as  slight  yet  as  dear  to  your 
soul,  then  you  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  a Poet, 
and  can  afford  to  write  no  more  verses  during  the  rest 
of  your  natural  life,  — which  abstinence  I take  to  be 
one  of  the  surest  marks  of  your  meriting  the  divine 
name  I have  just  bestowed  upon  you. 

May  I beg  of  you  who  have  begun  this  paper  nobly 
trusting  to  your  own  imagination  and  sensibilities  to 
give  it  the  significance  which  it  does  not  lay  claim  to 
without  your  kind  assistance,  — may  I beg  of  you,  I 
say,  to  pay  particular  attention  to  the  brackets  which 
inclose  certain  paragraphs  ? I want  my  asides,” 
you  see,  to  whisper  loud  to  you  who  read  my  notes, 
and  sometimes  I talk  a page  or  two  to  you  without 
pretending  that  I said  a word  of  it  to  our  boarders. 


202  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

You  will  find  a very  long  ‘‘  aside  ” to  you  almost  as 
soon  as  you  begin  to  read.  And  so,  dear  young  friend, 
fall  to  at  once,  taking  such  things  as  I have  provided 
for  you ; and  if  you  turn  them,  by  the  aid  of  your  pow- 
erful imagination,  into  a fair  banquet,  why,  then,  peace 
be  with  you,  and  a smnmer  by  the  still  waters  of  some 
quiet  river,  or  by  some  yellow  beach,  where,  as  my 
friend,  the  Professor,  says,  you  can  sit  with  Nature’s 
wrist  in  your  hand  and  count  her  ocean  pulses.] 

I should  like  to  make  a few  intimate  revelations  re- 
lating especially  to  my  early  life,  if  I thought  you 
would  like  to  hear  them. 

[The  schoolmistress  turned  a little  in  her  chair,  and 
sat  with  her  face  directed  partly  toward  me.  — HaK- 
mourning  now ; — purple  ribbon.  That  breastpin  she 
wears  has  gray  hair  in  it ; her  mother’s  no  doubt ; — 
I remember  our  landlady’s  daughter  telling  me,  soon 
after  the  schoolmistress  came  to  board  with  us,  that 
she  had  lately  buried  a payrent.”  That ’s  what  made 
her  look  so  pale,  — kept  the  poor  dying  thing  alive 
with  her  own  blood.  Ah ! long  illness  is  the  real 
vampyrism  ; think  of  living  a year  or  two  after  one  is 
dead,  by  sucking  the  life-blood  out  of  a frail  young 
creature  at  one’s  bedside ! Well,  souls  grow  white,  as 
well  as  cheeks,  in  these  holy  duties  ; one  that  goes  in 
a nurse  may  come  out  an  angel.  — God  bless  all  good 
women  ! — to  their  soft  hands  and  pitying  hearts  we 
must  all  come  at  last ! — The  schoolmistress  has  a bet- 
ter color  than  when  she  came.  — Too  late  ! — It 
might  have  been.”  — Amen  ! 

— How  many  thoughts  go  to  a dozen  heart-beats, 
sometimes ! There  was  no  long  pause  after  my  remark 
addressed  to  the  company,  but  in  that  time  I had  the 
train  of  ideas  and  feelings  I have  just  given  flash 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  203 


through  my  consciousness  sudden  and  sharp  as  the 
crooked  red  streak  that  springs  out  of  its  black  sheath 
like  the  creese  of  a Malay  in  his  death-race,  and 
stabs  the  earth  right  and  left  in  its  blind  rage. 

I don’t  deny  that  there  was  a pang  in  it, — yes,  a 
stab;  but  there  was  a prayer,  too,  — the  ‘‘Amen”  be- 
longed to  that.  — Also,  a vision  of  a four-story  brick 
house,  nicely  furnished,  — I actually  saw  many  specific 
articles,  — curtains,  sofas,  tables,  and  others,  and  could 
draw  the  patterns  of  them  at  this  moment,  — a brick 
house,  I say,  looking  out  on  the  water,  with  a fair 
parlor,  and  books  and  busts  and  pots  of  fiowers  and 
bird-cages,  all  complete ; and  at  the  window,  looking  on 
the  water,  two  of  us.  — “ Male  and  female  created  He 
them  ” — These  two  were  standing  at  the  window, 
when  a smaller  shape  that  was  playing  near  them 

looked  up  at  me  with  such  a look  that  I 

poured  out  a glass  of  water,  drank  it  all  down,  and 
then  continued.] 

I said  I should  like  to  tell  you  some  things,  such  as 
people  commonly  never  tell,  about  my  early  recollec- 
tions. Should  you  like  to  hear  them  ? 

Should  we  like  to  hear  them  ? — said  the  school- 
mistress ; — no,  but  we  should  love  to. 

[The  voice  was  a sweet  one,  naturally,  and  had 
something  very  pleasant  in  its  tone,  just  then.  — The 
four-story  brick  house,  which  had  gone  out  like  a 
transparency  when  the  light  behind  it  is  quenched, 
glimmered  again  for  a moment ; parlor,  books,  busts, 
flower-pots,  bird-cages,  all  complete,  — and  the  figures 
as  before.] 

We  are  waiting  with  eagerness,  Sir,  — said  the  di- 
vinity-student. 

[The  transparency  went  out  as  if  a flash  of  black 
lightning  had  struck  it.] 


204  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

If  you  want  to  hear  my  confessions,  the  next  thing, 
— I said,  — is  to  know  whether  I can  trust  you  with 
them.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  there  are  a great 
many  people  in  the  world  who  laugh  at  such  things. 
I think  they  are  fools,  but  perhaps  you  don’t  all  agree 
with  me. 

Here  are  children  of  tender  age  talked  to  as  if  they 
were  capable  of  understanding  Calvin’s  Institutes,” 
and  nobody  has  honesty  or  sense  enough  to  tell  the 
plain  truth  about  the  little  wretches : that  they  are  as 
superstitious  as  naked  savages,  and  such  miserable 
spiritual  cowards  — that  is,  if  they  have  any  imagina- 
tion — that  they  will  believe  anything  which  is  taught 
them,  and  a great  deal  more  which  they  teach  them- 
selves. 

I was  born  and  bred,  as  I have  told  you  twenty 
times,  among  books  and  those  who  knew  what  was  in 
books.  I was  carefully  instructed  in  things  temporal 
and  spiritual.  But  up  to  a considerable  maturity  of 
childhood  I believed  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  to 
have  been  superhuman  beings.  The  central  doctrine 
of  the  prevalent  religious  faith  of  Christendom  was 
utterly  confused  and  neutralized  in  my  mind  for  years 
by  one  of  those  too  common  stories  of  actual  life, 
which  I overheard  repeated  in  a whisper.  — Why  did 
I not  ask?  you  will  say. — You  don’t  remember  the 
rosy  pudency  of  sensitive  children.  The  first  in- 
stinctive movement  of  the  little  creatures  is  to  make  a 
cache^  and  bury  in  it  beliefs,  doubts,  dreams,  hopes, 
and  terrors.  I am  uncovering  one  of  these  caches. 
Do  you  think  I was  necessarily  a greater  fool  and 
coward 'than  another? 

I was  afraid  of  ships.  Why,  I could  never  teU. 
The  masts  looked  frightfully  tall,  — but  they  were  not 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  205 

SO  tall  as  the  steeple  of  our  old  yellow  meeting-house. 
At  any  rate  I used  to  hide  my  eyes  from  the  sloops 
and  schooners  that  were  wont  to  lie  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  and  I confess  that  traces  of  this  undefined 
terror  lasted  very  long.  — One  other  source  of  alarm 
had  a still  more  fearful  significance.  There  was  a 
great  wooden  hand,  — a glove-maker’s  sign,  which 
used  to  swing  and  creak  in  the  blast,  as  it  hung  from 
a pillar  before  a certain  shop  a mile  or  two  outside  of 
the  city.  Oh,  the  dreadful  hand  ! Always  hanging 
there  ready  to  catch  up  a little  boy,  who  would  come 
home  to  supper  no  more,  nor  yet  to  bed,  — whose  por- 
ringer would  be  laid  away  empty  thenceforth,  and  his 
half -worn  shoes  wait  until  his  small  brother  grew  to 
fit  them. 

As  for  all  manner  of  superstitious  observances,  I 
used  once  to  think  I must  have  been  peculiar  in  hav- 
ing such  a list  of  them,  but  I now  believe  that  half  the 
children  of  the  same  age  go  through  the  same  experi- 
ences. No  Roman  soothsayer  ever  had  such  a cata- 
logue of  omens  as  I found  in  the  Sibylline  leaves  of 
my  childhood.  That  trick  of  throwing  a stone  at  a 
tree  and  attaching  some  mighty  issue  to  hitting  or 
missing,  which  you  will  find  mentioned  in  one  or 
more  biographies,  I well  remember.  Stepping  on  or 
over  certain  particular  things  or  spots,  — Dr.  John- 
son’s especial  weakness,  — I got  the  habit  of  at  a very 
early  age.  — I won’t  swear  that  I have  not  some  ten- 
dency to  these  not  wise  practices  even  at  this  present 
date.  [How  many  of  you  that  read  these  notes  can 
say  the  same  thing  !] 

With  these  follies  mingled  sweet  delusions,  which 
I loved  so  well  I would  not  outgrow  them,  even  when 
it  required  a voluntary  effort  to  put  a momentary  trust 


206  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


in  them.  Here  is  one  which  I cannot  help  telling 
you. 

The  firing  of  the  great  guns  at  the  Navy-yard  is 
easily  heard  at  the  place  where  I was  horn  and  lived. 

There  is  a ship  of  war  come  in,”  they  used  to  say, 
when  they  heard  them.  Of  course,  I supposed  that 
such  vessels  came  in  unexpectedly,  after  indefinite 
years  of  absence,  — suddenly  as  falling  stones ; and 
that  the  great  guns  roared  in  their  astonishment  and 
delight  at  the  sight  of  the  old  war-ship  splitting  the 
bay  with  her  cutwater.  Now,  the  sloop-of-war  the 
Wasp,  Captain  Blakely,  after  gloriously  capturing  the 
Reindeer  and  the  Avon,  had  disappeared  from  the  face 
of  the  ocean,  and  was  supposed  to  be  lost.  But  there 
was  no  proof  of  it,  and,  of  course,  for  a time,  hopes 
were  entertained  that  she  might  be  heard  from.  Long 
after  the  last  real  chance  had  utterly  vanished,  I 
pleased  myself  with  the  fond  illusion  that  somewhere 
on  the  waste  of  waters  she  was  still  floating,  and  there 
were  years  during  which  I never  heard  the  sound  of  the 
great  gun  booming  inland  from  the  Navy-yard  with- 
ous  sa3ung  to  myself,  ‘‘  The  Wasp  has  come  ! ” and  al- 
most thinking  I could  see  her,  as  she  rolled  in,  crump- 
ling the  water  before  her,  weather-beaten,  barnacled, 
with  shattered  spars  and  threadbare  canvas,  welcomed 
by  the  shouts  and  tears  of  thousands.  This  was  one 
of  those  dreams  that  I nursed  and  never  told.  Let  me 
make  a clean  breast  of  it  now,  and  say,  that,  so  late  as 
to  have  outgrown  childhood,  perhaps  to  have  got  far 
on  towards  manhood,  when  the  roar  of  the  cannon 
has  struck  suddenly  on  my  ear,  I have  started  with  a 
thrill  of  vague  expectation  and  tremulous  delight,  and 
the  long-unspoken  words  have  articulated  themselves 
in  the  mind’s  dumb  whisper,  The  Wasp  has  come  ! 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  207 

— Yes,  children  believe  plenty  of  queer  things.  I 
suppose  all  of  you  have  had  the  pocket-book  fever 
when  you  were  little? — What  do  I mean?  Why, 
ripping  up  old  pocket-books  in  the  firm  belief  that 
bank-bills  to  an  immense  amount  were  hidden  in  them. 
— So,  too,  you  must  all  remember  some  splendid  un- 
fulfilled promise  of  somebody  or  other,  which  fed  you 
with  hopes  perhaps  for  years,  and  which  left  a blank 
in  your  life  which  nothing  has  ever  filled  up.  — O.  T. 
quitted  our  household  carrying  with  him  the  passionate 
regrets  of  the  more  youthful  members.  He  was  an  in- 
genious youngster ; wrote  wonderful  copies,  and  carved 
the  two  initials  given  above  with  great  skill  on  all 
available  surfaces.  I thought,  by  the  way,  they  were 
all  gone ; but  the  other  day  I found  them  on  a certain 
door  which  I will  show  you  some  time.  How  it  sur- 
prised me  to  find  them  so  near  the  ground!  I had 
thought  the  boy  of  no  trivial  dimensions.  Well,  O.  T., 
when  he  went,  made  a solemn  promise  to  two  of  us.  I 
was  to  have  a ship,  and  the  other  a mar^m-house  (last 
syllable  pronounced  as  in  the  word  tin).  Neither  ever 
came ; but,  oh,  how  many  and  many  a time  I have 
stolen  to  the  corner,  — the  cars  pass  close  by  it  at  this 
time,  — and  looked  up  that  long  avenue,  thinking  that 
he  must  be  coming  now,  almost  sure,  as  I turned  to 
look  northward,  that  there  he  would  be,  trudging  to- 
ward me,  the  ship  in  one  hand  and  the  mar^i/i-house 
in  the  other  I 

[You  must  not  suppose  that  all  I am  going  to  say, 
as  well  as  all  I have  said,  was  told  to  the  whole  com- 
pany. The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  was  in 
the  yard,  sitting  on  a barrel  and  smoking  a cheroot, 
the  fumes  of  which  came  in,  not  ungrateful,  through 
the  open  window.  The  divinity-student  disappeared 


208  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

in  the  midst  of  our  talk.  The  poor  relation  in  black 
bombazine,  who  looked  and  moved  as  if  all  her  articu- 
lations were  elbow- joints,  had  gone  off  to  her  chamber, 
after  waiting  with  a look  of  soul-subduing  decorum  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  until  one  of  the  male  sort  had 
passed  her  and  ascended  into  the  upper  regions.  This 
is  a famous  point  of  etiquette  in  our  boarding-house ; 
in  fact,  between  ourselves,  they  make  such  an  awful 
fuss  about  it,  that  I,  for  one,  had  a great  deal  rather 
have  them  simple  enough  not  to  think  of  such  matters 
at  all.  Our  landlady’s  daughter  said,  the  other  even- 
ing, that  she  was  going  to  retire  ” ; whereupon  the 
young  fellow  called  J ohn  took  up  a lamp  and  insisted 
on  lighting  her  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Nothing 
would  induce  her  to  pass  by  him,  until  the  school- 
mistress, saying  in  good  plain  English  that  it  was  her 
bed-time,  walked  straight  by  them  both,  not  seeming 
to  trouble  herself  about  either  of  them. 

I have  been  led  away  from  what  I meant  the  por- 
tion included  in  these  brackets  to  inform  my  readers 
about.  I say,  then,  most  of  the  boarders  had  left  the 
table  about  the  time  when  I began  telling  some  of 
these  secrets  of  mine,  — all  of  them,  in  fact,  but  the 
old  gentleman  opposite  and  the  schoolmistress.  I un- 
derstand why  a young  woman  should  like  to  hear  these 
simple  but  genuine  experiences  of  early  life,  which  are, 
as  I have  said,  the  little  brown  seeds  of  what  may  yet 
grow  to  be  poems  with  leaves  of  azure  and  gold ; but 
when  the  old  gentleman  pushed  up  his  chair  nearer  to 
me,  and  slanted  round  his  best  ear,  and  once,  when  I 
was  speaking  of  some  trifling,  tender  reminiscence, 
drew  a long  breath,  with  such  a tremor  in  it  that  a 
little  more  and  it  would  have  been  a sob,  why,  then  I 
felt  there  must  be  something  of  nature  in  them  which 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  209 

redeemed  their  seeming  insignificance.  Tell  me,  man 
or  woman  with  whom  I am  whispering,  have  you  not 
a small  store  of  recollections,  such  as  these  I am  un- 
covering, buried  beneath  the  dead  leaves  of  many  sum- 
mers, perhaps  under  the  unmelting  snows  of  fast  re- 
turning winters,  — a few  such  recollections,  which,  if 
you  should  write  them  all  out,  would  be  swept  into 
some  careless  editor’s  drawer,  and  might  cost  a scanty 
half  hour’s  lazy  reading  to  his  subscribers,  — and  yet, 
if  Death  should  cheat  you  out  of  them,  you  would  not 
know  yourself  in  eternity  ?] 

— I made  three  acquaintances  at  a very  early  period 
of  life,  my  introduction  to  whom  was  never  forgotten. 
The  first  unequivocal  act  of  wrong  that  has  left  its 
trace  in  my  memory  was  this  : refusing  a small  favor 
asked  of  me,  — nothing  more  than  telling  what  had 
happened  at  school  one  morning.  No  matter  who 
asked  it ; but  there  were  circumstances  which  sad- 
dened and  awed  me.  I had  no  heart  to  speak  ; — I 
faltered  some  miserable,  perhaps  petulant  excuse,  stole 
away,  and  the  first  battle  of  life  was  lost.  What  re- 
morse followed  I need  not  tell.  Then  and  there,  to 
the  best  of  my  knowledge,  I first  consciously  took  Sin 
by  the  hand  and  turned  my  back  on  Duty.  Time  has 
led  me  to  look  upon  my  offence  more  leniently ; I do 
not  believe  it  or  any  other  childish  wrong  is  infinite, 
as  some  have  pretended,  but  infinitely  finite.  Yet,  oh 
if  I had  but  won  that  battle ! 

The  great  Destroyer,  whose  awful  shadow  it  was 
that  had  silenced  me,  came  near  me,  — but  never,  so 
as  to  be  distinctly  seen  and  remembered,  during  my 
tender  years.  There  flits  dimly  before  me  the  image 
of  a little  girl,  whose  name  even  I have  forgotten,  a 
schoolmate,  whom  we  missed  one  day,  and  were  told 
14 


210  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

that  she  had  died.  But  what  death  was  I never  had 
any  very  distinct  idea,  until  one  day  I climbed  the  low 
stone  wall  of  the  old  burial-ground  and  mingled  with 
a group  that  were  looking  into  a very  deep,  long,  nar- 
row hole,  dug  down  through  the  green  sod,  down 
through  the  brown  loam,  down  through  the  yellow 
gravel,  and  there  at  the  bottom  was  an  oblong  red  box, 
and  a still,  sharp,  white  face  of  a young  man  seen 
through  an  opening  at  one  end  of  it.  When  the  lid 
was  closed,  and  the  gravel  and  stones  rattled  down 
pell-mell,  and  the  woman  in  black,  who  was  crying  and 
wringing  her  hands,  went  off  with  the  other  mourn- 
ers, and  left  him,  then  I felt  that  I had  seen  Death, 
and  should  never  forget  him. 

One  other  acquaintance  I made  at  an  earlier  period 
of  life  than  the  habit  of  romancers  authorizes. — 
Love,  of  course.  — She  was  a famous  beauty  after- 
wards. — I am  satisfied  that  many  children  rehearse 
their  parts  in  the  drama  of  life  before  they  have  shed 
all  their  milk-teeth.  — I think  I won’t  tell  the  story 
of  the  golden  blonde.  — I suppose  everybody  has  had 
his  childish  fancies ; but  sometimes  they  are  passionate 
impulses,  which  anticipate  all  the  tremulous  emotions 
belonging  to  a later  period.  Most  children  remember 
seeing  and  adoring  an  angel  before  they  were  a dozen 
years  old. 

[The  old  gentleman  had  left  his  chair  opposite  and 
taken  a seat  by  the  schoolmistress  and  myself,  a little 
way  from  the  table.  — It ’s  true,  it ’s  true,  — said  the 
old  gentleman. — He  took  hold  of  a steel  watch-chain, 
which  carried  a large,  square  gold  key  at  one  end  and 
was  supposed  to  have  some  kind  of  time-keeper  at  the 
other.  With  some  trouble  he  dragged  up  an  ancient- 
looking, thick,  silver,  bull’s-eye  watch.  He  looked  at  it 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BEE AKF AST-TABLE.  211 


for  a moment,  — hesitated,  — touched  the  inner  corner 
of  his  right  eye  with  the  pulp  of  his  middle  finger,  — 
looked  at  the  face  of  the  watch,  — said  it  was  getting 
into  the  forenoon,  — then  opened  the  watch  and  handed 
me  the  loose  outside  case  without  a word.  — The 
watch-paper  had  been  pink  once,  and  had  a faint  tinge 
still,  as  if  all  its  tender  life  had  not  yet  quite  faded 
out.  Two  little  birds,  a flower,  and,  in  small  school- 
girl letters,  a date,  — 17  . . — no  matter.  — Before 
I was  thirteen  years  old,  — said  the  old  gentleman.  — 
I don’t  know  what  was  in  that  young  schoolmistress’s 
head,  nor  why  she  should  have  done  it ; but  she  took 
out  the  watch-paper  and  put  it  softly  to  her  lips,  as  if 
she  were  kissing  the  poor  thing  that  made  it  so  long 
ago.  The  old  gentleman  took  the  watch-paper  care- 
fully from  her,  replaced  it,  turned  away  and  walked 
out,  holding  the  watch  in  his  hand.  I saw  him  pass 
the  window  a moment  after  with  that  foolish  white  hat 
on  his  head  ; he  could  n’t  have  been  thinking  what  he 
was  about  when  he  put  it  on.  So  the  schoolmistress 
and  I were  left  alone.  I drew  my  chair  a shade 
nearer  to  her,  and  continued.] 

And  since  I am  talking  of  early  recollections,  I don’t 
know  why  I should  n’t  mention  some  others  that  still 
cling  to  me,  — not  that  you  will  attach  any  very  par- 
ticular meaning  to  these  same  images  so  full  of  signif- 
icance to  me,  but  that  you  will  find  something  par- 
allel to  them  in  your  own  memory.  You  remember, 
perhaps,  what  I said  one  day  about  smells.  There 
were  certain  sounds  also  which  had  a mysterious  sug- 
gestiveness to  me,  — not  so  intense,  perhaps,  as  that 
connected  with  the  other  sense,  but  yet  peculiar,  and 
never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  first  was  the  creaking  of  the  wood-sleds,  bring- 


212  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

ing  their  loads  of  oak  and  walnut  from  the  country,  as 
the  slow-swinging  oxen  trailed  them  along  over  the 
complaining  snow,  in  the  cold,  brown  light  of  early 
morning.  Lying  in  bed  and  listening  to  their  dreary 
music  had  a pleasure  in  it  akin  to  the  Lucretian  lux- 
ury, or  that  which  Byron  speaks  of  as  to  be  enjoyed 
in  looking  on  at  a battle  by  one  who  hath  no  friend, 
no  brother  there.” 

There  was  another  sound,  in  itself  so  sweet,  and  so 
connected  with  one  of  those  simple  and  curious  super- 
stitions of  childhood  of  which  I have  spoken,  that  I 
can  never  cease  to  cherish  a sad  sort  of  love  for  it.  — 
Let  me  tell  the  superstitious  fancy  first.  The  Puritan 
Sabbath,”  as  everybody  knows,  began  at  sundown  ” 
on  Saturday  evening.  To  such  observance  of  it  I was 
born  and  bred.  As  the  large,  round  disk  of  day  de- 
clined, a stillness,  a solemnity,  a somewhat  melancholy 
hush  came  over  us  all.  It  was  time  for  work  to  cease, 
and  for  playthings  to  be  put  away.  The  world  of  ac- 
tive life  passed  into  the  shadow  of  an  eclipse,  not  to 
emerge  until  the  sun  should  sink  again  beneath  the 
horizon. 

It  was  in  this  stillness  of  the  world  without  and  of 
the  soul  within  that  the  pulsating  lullaby  of  the  even- 
ing crickets  used  to  make  itself  most  distinctly  heard, 
— so  that  I well  remember  I used  to  think  that  the 
purring  of  these  little  creatures,  Avhich  mingled  with 
the  batrachian  hymns  from  the  neighboring  swamp, 
was  ‘peculiar  to  Saturday  evenings.  I don’t  know 
that  anything  could  give  a clearer  idea  of  the  quieting 
and  subduing  effect  of  the  old  habit  of  observance  of 
what  was  considered  holy  time,  than  this  strange, 
childish  fancy. 

Yes,  and  there  was  still  another  sound  which  min- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  213 

gled  its  solemn  cadences  with  the  waking  and  sleeping 
dreams  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  heard  only  at  times, 
— a deep,  muffled  roar,  which  rose  and  fell,  not  loud, 
but  vast,  — a whistling  boy  would  have  drowned  it  for 
his  next  neighbor,  but  it  must  have  been  heard  over 
the  space  of  a hundred  square  miles.  I used  to  won- 
der what  this  might  be.  Could  it  be  the  roar  of  the 
thousand  wheels  and  the  ten  thousand  footsteps  jarring 
and  trampling  along  the  stones  of  the  neighboring 
city  ? That  would  be  continuous ; but  this,  as  I have 
said,  rose  and  fell  in  regular  rhythm.  I remember 
being  told,  and  I suppose  this  to  have  been  the  true 
solution,  that  it  was  the  sound  of  the  waves,  after  a 
high  wind,  breaking  on  the  long  beaches  many  miles 
distant.  I should  really  like  to  know  whether  any 
observing  people  living  ten  miles,  more  or  less,  inland 
from  long  beaches,  — in  such  a town,  for  instance,  as 
Cantabridge,  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  Territory  of 
the  Massachusetts,  — have  ever  observed  any  such 
sound,  and  whether  it  was  rightly  accounted  for  as 
above. 

Mingling  with  these  inarticulate  sounds  in  the  low 
murmur  of  memory,  are  the  echoes  of  certain  voices  I 
have  heard  at  rare  intervals.  I grieve  to  say  it,  but 
our  people,  I think,  have  not  generally  agreeable 
voices.  The  marrowy  organisms,  with  skins  that  shed 
water  like  the  backs  of  ducks,  with  smooth  surfaces 
neatly  padded  beneath,  and  velvet  linings  to  their 
singing-pipes,  are  not  so  common  among  us  as  that 
other  pattern  of  humanity  with  angular  outlines  and 
plane  surfaces,  arid  integuments,  hair  like  the  fibrous 
covering  of  a cocoa-nut  in  gloss  and  suppleness  as  well 
as  color,  and  voices  at  once  thin  and  strenuous;  — 
acidulous  enough  to  produce  effervescence  with  alkalis, 


214  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


and  stridulous  enough  to  sing  duets  with  the  katydids. 
I think  our  conversational  soprano,  as  sometimes 
overheard  in  the  cars,  arising  from  a group  of  young 
persons,  who  may  have  taken  the  train  at  one  of  our 
great  industrial  centres,  for  instance,  — young  persons 
of  the  female  sex,  we  will  say,  who  have  bustled  in, 
full-dressed,  engaged  in  loud  strident  speech,  and  who, 
after  free  discussion,  have  fixed  on  two  or  more 
double  seats,  which  having  secured,  they  proceed  to 
eat  apples  and  hand  round  daguerreotypes,  — I say  I 
think  the  conversational  soprano,  heard  under  these 
circumstances,  would  not  be  among  the  allurements 
the  old  Enemy  would  put  in  requisition,  were  he  get- 
ting up  a new  temptation  of  St.  Anthony. 

There  are  sweet  voices  among  us,  we  all  know,  and 
voices  not  musical,  it  may  be,  to  those  who  hear  them 
for  the  first  time,  yet  sweeter  to  us  than  any  we  shall 
hear  until  we  listen  to  some  warbling  angel  in  the 
overture  to  that  eternity  of  blissful  harmonies  we  hope 
to  enjoy.  — But  why  should  I tell  lies  ? If  my  friends 
love  me,  it  is  because  I try  to  tell  the  truth.  I never 
heard  but  two  voices  in  my  life  that  frightened  me  by 
their  sweetness. 

— F rightened  you  ? — said  the  schoolmistress.  — 
Yes,  frightened  me.  They  made  me  feel  as  if  there 
might  be  constituted  a creature  with  such  a chord  in 
her  voice  to  some  string  in  another’s  soul,  that,  if  she 
but  spoke,  he  would  leave  all  and  follow  her,  though 
it  were  into  the  jaws  of  Erebus.  Our  only  chance  to 
keep  our  wits  is,  that  there  are  so  few  natural  chords 
between  others’  voices  and  this  string  in  our  souls, 
and  that  those  which  at  first  may  have  jarred  a little 
by  and  by  come  into  harmony  with  it.  — But  I tell 
you  this  is  no  fiction.  You  may  call  the  story  of 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  215 

Ulysses  and  the  Sirens  a fable,  but  what  will  you  say 
to  Mario  and  the  poor  lady  who  followed  him  ? 

— Whose  were  those  two  voices  that  bewitched  me 
so  ? — They  both  belonged  to  German  women.  One 
was  a chambermaid,  not  otherwise  fascinating.  The 
key  of  my  room  at  a certain  great  hotel  was  missing, 
and  this  Teutonic  maiden  was  summoned  to  give  in- 
formation respecting  it.  The  simple  soul  was  evi- 
dently not  long  from  her  mother-land,  and  spoke  with 
sweet  uncertainty  of  dialect.  But  to  hear  her  wonder 
and  lament  and  suggest  with  soft,  liquid  inflexions, 
and  low,  sad  murmurs,  in  tones  as  full  of  serious  ten- 
derness for  the  fate  of  the  lost  key  as  if  it  had  been  a 
child  that  had  strayed  from  its  mother,  was  so  win- 
ning, that,  had  her  features  and  figure  been  as  deli- 
cious as  her  accents, — if  she  had  looked  like  the  mar- 
ble Clytie,  for  instance,  — why,  all  I can  say  is  — 

[The  schoolmistress  opened  her  eyes  so  wide,  that  I 
stopped  short.] 

I was  only  going  to  say  that  I should  have  drowned 
myself.  For  Lake  Erie  was  close  by,  and  it  is  so 
much  better  to  accept  asphyxia,  which  takes  only 
three  minutes  by  the  watch,  than  a mesalliance^  that 
lasts  fifty  years  to  begin  with,  and  then  passes  along 
down  the  line  of  descent  (breaking  out  in  all  manner 
of  boorish  manifestations  of  feature  and  manner, 
which,  if  men  were  only  as  short-lived  as  horses,  could 
be  readily  traced  back  through  the  square-roots  and 
the  cube-roots  of  the  family  stem  on  which  you  have 
hung  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  De  Champignons 
or  the  De  la  Morues,  until  one  came  to  beings  that 
ate  with  knives  and  said  Haow?”),  that  no  person 
of  right  feeling  could  have  hesitated  for  a single  mo- 
ment. 


216  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  second  of  the  ravishing  voices  I have  heard 
was,  as  I have  said,  that  of  another  German  woman. 

■ — I suppose  I shall  ruin  myself  by  saying  that  such 
a voice  could  not  have  come  from  any  Americanized 
human  being. 

— What  was  there  in  it  ? — said  the  schoolmistress, 
— and,  upon  my  word,  her  tones  were  so  very  musical, 
that  I almost  wished  I had  said  three  voices  instead  of 
two,  and  not  made  the  unpatriotic  remark  above  re- 
ported. — Oh,  I said,  it  had  so  much  woman  in  it,  — 
muliebrity^  as  well  as  femineity ; — no  self-assertion, 
such  as  free  suffrage  introduces  into  every  word  and 
movement;  large,  vigorous  nature,  running  back  to 
those  huge-limbed  Germans  of  Tacitus,  but  subdued 
by  the  reverential  training  and  tuned  by  the  kindly 
culture  of  fifty  generations.  Sharp  business  habits,  a 
lean  soil,  independence,  enterprise,  and  east  winds,  are 
not  the  best  things  for  the  larynx.  Still,  you  hear 
noble  voices  among  us,  — I have  known  families  fa- 
mous for  them,  — but  ask  the  first  person  you  meet  a 
question,  and  ten  to  one  there  is  a hard,  sharp,  metal- 
lic, matter-of-business  clink  in  the  accents  of  the  an- 
swer, that  produces  the  effect  of  one  of  those  bells 
which  small  trades-people  connect  with  their  shop- 
doors,  and  which  spring  upon  your  ear  with  such  vi- 
vacity, as  you  enter,  that  your  first  impulse  is  to  retire 
at  once  from  the  precincts. 

— Ah,  but  I must  not  forget  that  dear  little  child  I 
saw  and  heard  in  a French  hospital.  Between  two 
and  three  years  old.  Fell  out  of  her  chair  and  snapped 
both  thigh-bones.  Lying  in  bed,  patient,  gentle. 
Bough  students  round  her,  some  in  white  aprons, 
looking  fearfully  business-like ; but  the  child  placid, 
perfectly  still.  I spoke  to  her,  and  the  blessed  little 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  217 

creature  answered  me  in  a voice  of  such  heavenly 
sweetness,  with  that  reedy  thrill  in  it  which  you  have 
heard  in  the  thrush’s  even-song,  that  I seem  to  hear  it 
at  this  moment,  while  I am  writing,  so  many,  many 
years  afterwards.  — C^est  tout  comme  un  serin^  said 
the  French  student  at  my  side. 

These  are  the  voices  which  struck  the  key-note  of 
my  conceptions  as  to  what  the  sounds  we  are  to  hear  in 
heaven  will  be,  if  we  shall  enter  through  one  of  the 
twelve  gates  of  pearl.  There  must  be  other  things 
besides  aerolites  that  wander  from  their  own  spheres 
to  ours  ; and  when  we  speak  of  celestial  sweetness  or 
beauty,  we  may  be  nearer  the  literal  truth  than  we 
dream.  If  mankind  generally  are  the  shipwrecked 
survivors  of  some  pre-Adamitic  cataclysm,  set  adrift 
in  these  little  open  boats  of  humanity  to  make  one 
more  trial  to  reach  the  shore,  — as  some  grave  theolo- 
gians have  maintained,  — if,  in  plain  English,  men  are 
the  ghosts  of  dead  devils  who  have  ‘‘  died  into  life  ” 
(to  borrow  an  expression  from  Keats),  and  walk  the 
earth  in  a suit  of  living  rags  which  lasts  three  or  four 
score  summers,  — why,  there  must  have  been  a few 
good  spirits  sent  to  keep  them  company,  and  these 
sweet  voices  I speak  of  must  belong  to  them. 

— I wish  you  could  once  hear  my  sister’s  voice,  — 
said  the  schoolmistress. 

If  it  is  like  yours,  it  must  be  a pleasant  one,  — 
said  I. 

I never  thought  mine  was  anything,  — said  the 
schoolmistress. 

How  should  you  know  ? — said  I.  — People  never 
hear  their  own  voices,  — any  more  than  they  see  their 
own  faces.  There  is  not  even  a looking-glass  for  the 
voice.  Of  course,  there  is  something  audible  to  us 


218  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

when  we  speak;  but  that  something  is  not  our  own 
voice  as  it  is  known  to  all  our  acquaintances.  I think, 
if  an  image  spoke  to  us  in  our  own  tones,  we  should 
not  know  them  in  the  least.  — How  pleasant  it  would 
be,  if  in  another  state  of  being  we  could  have  shapes 
like  our  former  selves  for  playthings, — we  standing 
outside  or  inside  of  them,  as  we  liked,  and  they  being 
to  us  just  what  we  used  to  be  to  others  ! 

— I wonder  if  there  will  be  nothing  like  what  we 
call  play,”  after  our  earthly  toys  are  broken,  — said 
the  schoolmistress. 

Hush,  — said  I,  — what  will  the  divinity-student 
say  ? 

[I  thought  she  was  hit,  that  time  ; — but  the  shot 
must  have  gone  over  her,  or  on  one  side  of  her ; she 
did  not  flinch.] 

Oh,  — said  the  schoolmistress,  — he  must  look  out 
for  my  sister’s  heresies ; I am  afraid  he  will  be  too 
busy  with  them  to  take  care  of  mine. 

Do  you  mean  to  say,  — said  I,  — that  it  is  your  sis^ 
ter  whom  that  student  — 

[The  young  fellow  commonly  known  as  John,  who 
had  been  sitting  on  the  barrel,  smoking,  jumped  off 
just  then,  kicked  over  the  barrel,  gave  it  a push  with 
his  foot  that  set  it  rolling,  and  stuck  his  saucy-looking 
face  in  at  the  window  so  as  to  cut  my  question  off  in 
the  middle ; and  the  schoolmistress  leaving  the  room 
a few  minutes  afterwards,  I did  not  have  a chance  to 
finish  it. 

The  young  fellow  came  in  and  sat  down  in  a chair, 
putting  his  heels  on  the  top  of  another. 

Pooty  girl,  — said  he. 

A fine  young  lady,  — I replied. 

Keeps  a fust-rate  school,  according  to  accounts,  — 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  219 

said  he,  — teaches  all  sorts  of  things,  — Latin  and 
Italian  and  music.  Folks  rich  once,  — smashed  up. 
She  went  right  ahead  as  smart  as  if  she ’d  been  born 
to  work.  That ’s  the  kind  o’  girl  I go  for.  I ’d  marry 
her,  only  two  or  three  other  girls  would  drown  them- 
selves, if  I did. 

I think  the  above  is  the  longest  speech  of  this  young 
fellow’s  which  I have  put  on  record.  I do  not  like 
to  change  his  peculiar  expressions,  for  this  is  one  of 
those  cases  in  which  the  style  is  the  man,  as  M.  de 
Buffon  says.  The  fact  is,  the  young  fellow  is  a good- 
hearted  creature  enough,  only  too  fond  of  his  jokes, 
— and  if  it  were  not  for  those  heat-lightning  winks 
on  one  side  of  his  face,  I should  not  mind  his  fun 
much.] 

[Some  days  after  this,  when  the  company  were  to- 
gether again,  I talked  a little.] 

— I don’t  think  I have  a genuine  hatred  for  any- 
body. I am  well  aware  that  I differ  herein  from 
the  sturdy  English  moralist  and  the  stout  American 
tragedian.  I don’t  deny  that  I hate  the  sight  of  cer- 
tain people ; but  the  qualities  which  make  me  tend  to 
hate  the  man  himself  are  such  as  I am  so  much  dis- 
posed to  pity,  that,  except  under  immediate  aggrava- 
tion, I feel  kindly  enough  to  the  worst  of  them.  It  is 
such  a sad  thing  to  be  born  a sneaking  fellow,  so  much 
worse  than  to  inherit  a hump-back  or  a couple  of  club- 
feet, that  I sometimes  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  love  the 
crippled  souls,  if  I may  use  this  expression,  with  a cer- 
tain tenderness  which  we  need  not  waste  on  noble 
natures.  One  who  is  born  with  such  congenital  inca- 
pacity that  nothing  can  make  a gentleman  of  him  is 
entitled,  not  to  our  wrath,  but  to  our  profoundest 


220  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

sympathy.  But  as  we  cannot  help  hating  the  sight  of 
these  people,  just  as  we  do  that  of  physical  deformi- 
ties, we  gradually  eliminate  them  from  our  society,  — 
we  love  them,  but  open  the  window  and  let  them  go. 
By  the  time  decent  people  reach  middle  age  they  have 
weeded  their  circle  pretty  well  of  these  unfortunates, 
unless  they  have  a taste  for  such  animals ; in  which 
case,  no  matter  what  their  position  may  be,  there  is 
something,  you  may  be  sure,  in  their  natures  akin  to 
that  of  their  wretched  parasites. 

— The  divinity-student  wished  to  know  what  I 
thought  of  affinities,  as  well  as  of  antipathies ; did  I 
believe  in  love  at  first  sight  ? 

Sir,  — said  I,  — all  men  love  all  women.  That  is 
the  primd-facie  aspect  of  the  case.  The  Court  of 
Nature  assumes  the  law  to  be,  that  all  men  do  so ; and 
the  individual  man  is  bound  to  show  cause  why  he 
does  not  love  any  particular  woman.  A man,  says 
one  of  my  old  black-letter  law-books,  may  show  divers 
good  reasons,  as  thus  : He  hath  not  seen  the  person 
named  in  the  indictment ; she  is  of  tender  age,  or  the 
reverse  of  that;  she  hath  certain  personal  disqualifica- 
tions, — as,  for  instance,  she  is  a blackamoor,  or  hath 
an  ill-favored  countenance  ; or,  his  capacity  of  loving 
being  limited,  his  affections  are  engrossed  by  a pre- 
vious comer ; and  so  of  other  conditions.  Not  the  less 
is  it  true  that  he  is  bound  by  duty  and  inclined  by 
nature  to  love  each  and  every  woman.  Therefore  it 
is  that  each  woman  virtually  summons  every  man  to 
show  cause  why  he  doth  not  love  her.  This  is  not  by 
written  document,  or  direct  speech,  for  the  most  part, 
but  by  certain  signs  of  silk,  gold,  and  other  materials, 
which  say  to  all  men,  — Look  on  me  and  love,  as  in 
duty  bound.  Then  the  man  pleadeth  his  special  in- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  221 

capacity,  whatsoever  that  may  be,  — as,  for  instance, 
impecuniosity,  or  that  he  hath  one  or  many  wives  in 
his  household,  or  that  he  is  of  mean  figure,  or  small 
capacity ; of  which  reasons  it  may  be  noted,  that  the 
first  is,  according  to  late  decisions,  of  chiefest  author- 
ity. — So  far  the  old  law-book.  But  there  is  a note 
from  an  older  authority,  saying  that  every  woman  doth 
also  love  each  and  every  man,  except  there  be  some 
good  reason  to  the  contrary;  and  a very  observing 
friend  of  mine,  a young  unmarried  clergyman,  tells 
me,  that,  so  far  as  his  experience  goes,  he  has  reason 
to  think  the  ancient  author  had  fact  to  justify  his 
statement. 

I ’ll  tell  you  how  it  is  with  the  pictures  of  women 
we  fall  in  love  with  at  first  sight. 

— We  a’n’t  talking  about  pictures, — said  the  land- 
lady’s daughter,  — w^e  ’re  talking  about  women. 

I understood  that  we  were  speaking  of  love  at  sight, 
— I remarked,  mildly.  — Now,  as  all  a man  knows 
about  a woman  whom  he  looks  at  is  just  what  a picture 
as  big  as  a copper,  or  a nickel,”  rather,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  eye  can  teach  him,  I think  I am  right  in  saying 
we  are  talking  about  the  pictures  of  women.  — W ell, 
now,  the  reason  why  a man  is  not  desperately  in  love 
with  ten  thousand  women  at  once  is  just  that  which 
prevents  all  our  portraits  being  distinctly  seen  upon 
that  wall.  They  all  are  painted  there  by  reflection 
from  our  faces,  but  because  all  of  them  are  painted  on 
each  spot,  and  each  on  the  same  surface,  and  many 
other  objects  at  the  same  time,  no  one  is  seen  as  a 
picture.  But  darken  a chamber  and  let  a single  pencil 
of  rays  in  through  a key-hole,  then  you  have  a picture 
on  the  wall.  We  never  fall  in  love  with  a woman  in 
distinction  from  women,  until  we  can  get  an  image  of 


222  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

her  though  a pin-hole ; and  then  we  can  see  nothing 
else,  and  nobody  but  ourselves  can  see  the  image  in 
our  mental  camera-obscura. 

— My  friend,  the  Poet,  tells  me  he  has  to  leave 
town  whenever  the  anniversaries  come  round. 

What ’s  the  difficulty  ? — Why,  they  all  want  him 
to  get  up  and  make  speeches,  or  songs,  or  toasts ; 
which  is  just  the  very  thing  he  does  n’t  want  to  do. 
He  is  an  old  story,  he  says,  and  hates  to  show  on  these 
occasions.  But  they  tease  him,  and  coax  him,  and 
can’t  do  without  him,  and  feel  all  over  his  poor  weak 
head  until  they  get  their  fingers  on  the  fontanelle 
(the  Prof essor  will  tell  you  what  this  means,  — he  says 
the  one  at  the  top  of  the  head  always  remains  open  in 
poets),  until,  by  gentle  pressure  on  that  soft  pulsating 
spot,  they  stupefy  him  to  the  point  of  acquiescence. 

There  are  times,  though,  he  says,  when  it  is  a pleas- 
ure, before  going  to  some  agreeable  meeting,  to  rush 
out  into  one’s  garden  and  clutch  up  a handful  of  what 
grows  there,  — weeds  and  violets  together,  — not  cut- 
ting them  off,  but  pulling  them  up  by  the  roots  with 
the  brown  earth  they  grow  in  sticking  to  them.  That’s 
his  idea  of  a post-prandial  performance.  Look  here, 
now.  These  verses  I am  going  to  read  you,  he  tells  me, 
were  pulled  up  by  the  roots  just  in  that  way,  the  other 
day.  — Beautiful  entertainment,  — names  there  on 
the  plates  that  flow  from  all  English-speaking  tongues 
as  familiarly  as  and  or  the ; entertainers  known  when- 
ever good  poetry  and  fair  title-pages  are  held  in  es- 
teem ; guest  a kind-hearted,  modest,  genial,  hopeful 
poet,  who  sings  to  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  the 
British  people,  the  songs  of  good  cheer  which  the 
better  days  to  come,  as  all  honest  souls  trust  and  be- 
lieve, will  turn  into  the  prose  of  common  life.  My 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  223 


friend,  the  Poet,  says  you  must  not  read  such  a string 
of  verses  too  literally.  If  he  trimmed  it  nicely  below, 
you  would  n’t  see  the  roots,  he  says,  and  he  likes  to 
keep  them,  and  a little  of  the  soil  clinging  to  them. 

This  is  the  farewell  my  friend,  the  Poet,  read  to  his 
and  our  friend,  the  Poet : — 

A GOOD  TIME  GOING! 

Brave  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 

Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme. 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire’s  peasant, 

Good-bye!  Good-bye! — Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases. 

Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 
His  feet  among  the  English  daisies ! 

’T  is  here  we  part ; — for  other  eyes 
The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer. 

The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor. 

The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier. 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o’er  him. 

The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him! 

His  home!  — the  Western  giant  smiles. 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it,  — 

This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

’T  is  but  a freckle,  — never  mind  it!  — 

He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll. 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 

And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 
Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles. 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer. 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant. 

And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear. 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant:  — 


224  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE, 


‘‘  An  islet  is  a world/’  she  said, 

When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 

And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rendedl  ” 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 
Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 

From  wave- washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 
Her  valor’s  life-blood  runs  in  roses; 

Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 
Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 

One-half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 
In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow’s  clasp. 

From  sea- weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together,  — 

With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green. 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her. 

And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between, — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her! 

In  earth’s  broad  temple  where  we  stand. 

Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us. 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us; 
Where’er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 
The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters. 

Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 
Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters ! 

Enough ! To  speed  a parting  friend 
’T  is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen;  — 

Yet  stay,  — these  feeble  accents  blend 
With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 
Good-bye!  once  more,  — and  kindly  tell 

In  words  of  peace  the  young  world’s  story,  — 
And  say,  besides,  — we  love  too  well 
Our  mothers^  soil,  our  fathers’  glory! 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLK  225 

When  my  friend,  the  Professor,  found  that  my 
friend,  the  Poet,  had  been  coming  out  in  this  full- 
blown style,  he  got  a little  excited,  as  you  may  have 
seen  a canary,  sometimes,  when  another  strikes  up. 
The  Professor  says  he  knows  he  can  lecture,  and 
thinks  he  can  write  verses.  At  any  rate,  he  has  often 
tried,  and  now  he  was  determined  to  try  again.  So 
when  some  professional  friends  of  his  called  him  up, 
one  day,  after  a feast  of  reason  and  a regular  “freshet” 
of  soul  which  had  lasted  two  or  three  hours,  he  read 
them  these  verses.  He  introduced  them  with  a few 
remarks,  he  told  me,  of  which  the  only  one  he  remem- 
bered was  this : that  he  had  rather  write  a single  line 
which  one  among  them  should  think  worth  remember- 
ing than  set  them  all  laughing  with  a string  of  epi- 
grams. It  was  all  right,  I don’t  doubt ; at  any  rate, 
that  was  his  fancy  then,  and  perhaps  another  time  he 
may  be  obstinately  hilarious ; however,  it  may  be  that 
he  is  growing  graver,  for  time  is  a fact  so  long  as 
clocks  and  watches  continue  to  go,  and  a cat  can’t  be 
a kitten  always,  as  the  old  gentleman  opposite  said 
the  other  day. 

You  must  listen  to  this  seriously,  for  I think  the 
Professor  was  very  much  in  earnest  when  he  wrote  it. 

THE  TWO  ARMIES.  “ 

As  Lifers  unending  column  pours, 

Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat’s  roll, 

The  wide-mouthed  clarion’s  bray, 

* This  poem  was  written  for  and  read  at  a meeting  of  the 
Massachusetts  Medical  Society. 

15 


226 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


And  bears  upon  a crimson  scroll, 

“ Our  glory  is  to  slay.’’ 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 

With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes. 

Calm  as  the  patient  planet\s  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave; 

Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 

“ Our  duty  is  to  save.” 

For  those  no  death-bed’s  lingering  shade; 
At  Honor’s  trumpet-call. 

With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 
In  Glory’s  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright. 
No  stirring  battle-cry; 

The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 
Each  answers,  “ Here  am  I!  ” 

For  those  the  sculptor’s  laurelled  bust. 
The  builder’s  marble  piles. 

The  anthems  pealing  o’er  their  dust 
Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 
That  floods  the  lonely  graves. 

When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 
In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below. 

And  angels  wait  above. 

Who  count  each  burning  life-drop’s  flow, 
Each  falling  tear  of  love. 

Though  from  the  Hero’s  bleeding  breast 
Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  227 

Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 
Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  — 

While  Valor’s  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 

To  sit  beside  the  Throne  I 


X. 

[The  schoolmistress  came  down  with  a rose  in  her 
hair,  — a fresh  June  rose.  She  has  been  walking 
early;  she  has  brought  back  two  others,  — one  on 
each  cheek. 

I told  her  so,  in  some  such  pretty  phrase  as  I could 
muster  for  the  occasion.  Those  two  blush-roses  I just 
spoke  of  turned  into  a couple  of  damasks.  I suppose 
all  this  went  through  my  mind,  for  this  was  what  I 
went  on  to  say  : — ] 

I love  the  damask  rose  best  of  all.  The  flowers  our 
mothers  and  sisters  used  to  love  and  cherish,  those 
which  grow  beneath  our  eaves  and  by  our  doorstep, 
are  the  ones  we  always  love  best.  If  the  Houyhnhnms 
should  ever  catch  me,  and,  finding  me  particularly  vi- 
cious and  unmanageable,  send  a man-tamer  to  Rareyfy 
me,  I ’ll  tell  you  what  drugs  he  would  have  to  take 
and  how  he  would  have  to  use  them.  Imagine  your- 
self reading  a number  of  the  Houyhnhnm  Gazette, 
giving  an  account  of  such  an  experiment. 

MAN-TAMING  EXTRAORDINARY.” 

‘‘  The  soft-hoofed  semi-quadruped  recently  captured 
was  subjected  to  the  art  of  our  distinguished  man- 
tamer  in  presence  of  a numerous  assembly.  The  ani- 


228  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

mal  was  led  in  by  two  stout  ponies,  closely  confined 
by  straps  to  prevent  his  sudden  and  dangerous  tricks 
of  shoulder-hitting  and  foot-striking.  His  counter 
nance  expressed  the  utmost  degree  of  ferocity  and  cun- 
ning. 

The  operator  took  a handful  of  budding  lilac- 
leaves^  and  crushing  them  slightly  between  his  hoofs, 
so  as  to  bring  out  their  peculiar  fragrance,  fastened 
them  to  the  end  of  a long  pole  and  held  them  towards 
the  creature.  Its  expression  changed  in  an  instant,  — 
it  drew  in  their  fragrance  eagerly,  and  attempted  to 
seize  them  with  its  soft  split  hoofs.  Having  thus  qui- 
eted his  suspicious  subject,  the  operator  proceeded  to 
tie  a blue  hyacinth  to  the  end  of  the  pole  and  held  it 
out  towards  the  wild  animal.  The  effect  was  magical. 
Its  eyes  filled  as  if  with  raindrops,  and  its  lips  trem- 
bled as  it  pressed  them  to  the  flower.  After  this  it 
was  perfectly  quiet,  and  brought  a measure  of  corn  to 
the  man-tamer,  without  showing  the  least  disposition 
to  strike  with  the  feet  or  hit  from  the  shoulder.” 

That  will  do  for  the  Houyhnhnm  Gazette.  — Do 
you  ever  wonder  why  poets  talk  so  much  about  flowers  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a poet  who  did  not  talk  about 
them  ? Don’t  you  think  a poem,  which,  for  the  sake 
of  being  original,  should  leave  them  out,  would  be  like 
those  verses  where  the  letter  a or  e or  some  other  is 
omitted  ? No,  — they  will  bloom  over  and  over  again 
in  poems  as  in  the  summer  fields,  to  the  end  of  time, 
always  old  and  always  new.  Why  should  we  be  more 
shy  of  repeating  ourselves  than  the  spring  be  tired  of 
blossoms  or  the  night  of  stars  ? Look  at  Nature.  She 
never  wearies  of  saying  over  her  floral  pater-noster. 
In  the  crevices  of  Cyclopean  walls,  — in  the  dust  where 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  229 


men  Ke,  dust  also,  — on  the  mounds  that  bury  huge 
cities,  the  wreck  of  Nineveh  and  the  Babel-heap, — 
still  that  same  sweet  prayer  and  benediction.  The 
Amen ! of  Nature  is  always  a flower. 

Are  you  tired  of  my  trivial  personalities,  — those 
splashes  and  streaks  of  sentiment,  sometimes  perhaps 
of  sentimentality,  which  you  may  see  when  I show  you 
my  heart’s  corolla  as  if  it  were  a tulip  ? Pray,  do  not 
give  yourself  the  trouble  to  fancy  me  an  idiot  whose 
conceit  it  is  to  treat  himself  as  an  exceptional  being. 
It  is  because  you  are  just  like  me  that  I talk  and  know 
that  you  will  listen.  We  are  all  splashed  and  streaked 
with  sentiments,  — not  with  precisely  the  same  tints, 
or  in  exactly  the  same  patterns,  but  by  the  same  hand 
and  from  the  same  palette. 

I don’t  believe  any  of  you  happen  to  have  just  the 
same  passion  for  the  blue  hyacinth  which  I have,  — 
very  certainly  not  for  the  crushed  lilac-leaf-buds  ; 
many  of  you  do  not  know  how  sweet  they  are.  You 
love  the  smell  of  the  sweet-fern  and  the  bay-berry- 
leaves,  I don’t  doubt ; but  I hardly  think  that  the  last 
bewitches  you  with  young  memories  as  it  does  me. 
For  the  same  reason  I come  back  to  damask  roses, 
after  having  raised  a good  many  of  the  rarer  varieties. 
I like  to  go  to  operas  and  concerts,  but  there  are  queer 
little  old  homely  sounds  that  are  better  than  music  to 
me.  However,  I suppose  it ’s  foolish  to  tell  such 
things. 

— It  is  pleasant  to  be  foolish  at  the  right  time,  — 
said  the  divinity-student ; — saying  it,  however,  in  one 
of  the  dead  languages,  which  I think  are  unpopular 
for  summer-reading,  and  therefore  do  not  bear  quota- 
tion as  such. 

Well,  now,  — said  I,  — suppose  a good,  clean, 


230  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE. 

wholesome-looking  countryman’s  cart  stops  opposite 
my  door.  — Do  I want  any  huckleberries  ? — If  I do 
not,  there  are  those  that  do.  Thereupon  my  soft- 
voiced  handmaid  bears  out  a large  tin  pan,  and  then 
the  wholesome  countryman,  heaping  the  peck-measure, 
spreads  his  broad  hands  around  its  lower  arc  to  con- 
fine the  wild  and  frisky  berries,  and  so  they  run 
nimbly  along  the  narrowing  channel  until  they  tumble 
rustling  down  in  a black  cascade  and  tinkle  on  the  re- 
sounding metal  beneath.  — I won’t  say  that  this  rush- 
ing huckleberry  hail-storm  has  not  more  music  for  me 
than  the  Anvil  Chorus.” 

— I wonder  how  my  great  trees  are  coming  on  this 
summer. 

— Where  are  your  great  trees.  Sir?  — said  the  divin- 
ity-student. 

Oh,  all  round  about  New  England.  I call  all  trees 
mine  that  I have  put  my  wedding-ring  on,  and  I have 
as  many  tree-wives  as  Brigham  Young  has  human  ones. 

— One  set ’s  as  green  as  the  other,  — exclaimed  a 
boarder,  who  has  never  been  identified. 

They’re  all  Bloomers,  — said  the  young  fellow 
called  John. 

[I  should  have  rebuked  this  trifling  with  language, 
if  our  landlady’s  daughter  had  not  asked  me  just  then 
what  I meant  by  putting  my  wedding-ring  on  a tree.] 

Why,  measuring  it  with  my  thirty-foot  tape,  my 
dear,  — said  I,  — I have  worn  a tape  almost  out  on 
the  rough  barks  of  our  old  New  England  elms  and 
other  big  trees.  — Don’t  you  want  to  hear  me  talk 
trees  a little  now  ? That  is  one  of  my  specialties. 

[So  they  all  agreed  that  they  should  like  to  hear  me 
talk  about  trees.] 

I want  you  to  understand,  in  the  first  place,  that  I 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  231 


have  a most  intense,  passionate  fondness  for  trees  in 
general,  and  have  had  several  romantic  attachments  to 
certain  trees  in  particular.  Now,  if  you  expect  me  to 
hold  forth  in  a scientific  ” way  about  my  tree-loves, 

— to  talk,  for  instance,  of  the  Ulmus  Americana,  and 
describe  the  ciliated  edges  of  its  samara,  and  all  that, 

— you  are  an  anserine  individual,  and  I must  refer 
you  to  a dull  friend  who  will  discourse  to  you  of  such 
matters.  What  should  you  think  of  a lover  who 
should  describe  the  idol  of  his  heart  in  the  language 
of  science,  thus : Class,  Mammalia  ; Order,  Primates ; 
Genus,  Homo;  Species,  Europeus ; Variety,  Brown; 
Individual,  Ann  Eliza  ; Dental  Formula, 

.2  — 2 1 — 1 2 — 2 3 — 3 


and  so  on? 


^2  — 2^1  — 1^2  — 2^3  — 3’ 

No,  my  friends,  I shall  speak  of  trees  as  we  see 
them,  love  them,  adore  them  in  the  fields,  where  they 
are  alive,  holding  their  green  sun-shades  over  our 
heads,  talking  to  us  with  their  hundred  thousand 
whispering  tongues,  looking  down  on  us  with  that 
sweet  meekness  which  belongs  to  huge,  but  limited 
organisms,  — which  one  sees  in  the  brown  eyes  of 
oxen,  but  most  in  the  patient  posture,  the  outstretched 
arms,  and  the  heavy-drooping  robes  of  these  vast  be- 
ings endowed  with  life,  but  not  with  soul,  — which 
outgrow  us  and  outlive  us,  but  stand  helpless,  — poor 
things  ! — while  Nature  dresses  and  undresses  them, 
like  so  many  full-sized,  but  under-witted  children. 

Did  you  ever  read  old  Daddy  Gilpin  ? Slowest  of 
men,  even  of  English  men;  yet  delicious  in  his  slow- 
ness, as  is  the  light  of  a sleepy  eye  in  woman.  I always 
supposed  ‘‘  Dr.  Syntax  ” was  written  to  make  fun  of 
him.  I have  a whole  set  of  his  works,  and  am  very 
proud  of  it,  with  its  gray  paper,  and  open  type,  and 


232  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

long  ff,  and  orange -juice  landscapes.  Pere  Gilpin 
had  the  kind  of  science  I like  in  the  study  of  Nature, 
— a little  less  observation  than  White  of  Selborne, 
but  a little  more  poetry.  — Just  think  of  applying  the 
LinnaBan  system  to  an  elm ! Who  cares  how  many 
stamens  or  pistils  that  little  brown  flower,  which  comes 
out  before  the  leaf,  may  have  to  classify  it  by  ? What 
we  want  is  the  meaning,  the  character,  the  expression 
of  a tree,  as  a kind  and  as  an  individual. 

There  is  a mother-idea  in  each  particular  kind  of 
tree,  which,  if  well  marked,  is  probably  embodied  in 
the  poetry  of  every  language.  Take  the  oak,  for  in- 
stance, and  we  find  it  always  standing  as  a type  of 
strength  and  endurance.  I wonder  if  you  ever  thought 
of  the  single  mark  of  supremacy  which  distinguishes 
this  tree  from  those  around  it  ? The  others  shirk  the 
work  of  resisting  gravity ; the  oak  defies  it.  It  chooses 
the  horizontal  direction  for  its  limbs  so  that  their 
whole  weight  may  tell,  — and  then  stretches  them  out 
fifty  or  sixty  feet,  so  that  the  strain  may  be  mighty 
enough  to  be  worth  resisting.  You  will  find,  that,  in 
passing  from  the  extreme  downward  droop  of  the 
branches  of  the  weeping-willow  to  the  extreme  upward 
inclination  of  those  of  the  poplar,  they  sweep  nearly 
half  a circle.  At  90°  the  oak  stops  short ; to  slant 
upward  another  degree  would  mark  infirmity  of  pur- 
pose; to  bend  downwards,  weakness  of  organization. 
The  American  elm  betrays  something  of  both;  yet 
sometimes,  as  we  shall  see,  puts  on  a certain  resem- 
blance to  its  sturdier  neighbor. 

It  won’t  do  to  be  exclusive  in  our  taste  about 
trees.  There  is  hardly  one  of  them  which  has  not  pe- 
culiar beauties  in  some  fitting  place  for  it.  I remem- 
ber a tall  poplar  of  monumental  proportions  and  as- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  233 


pect,  a vast  pillar  of  glossy  green,  placed  on  tlie  sum- 
mit of  a lofty  hill,  and  a beacon  to  all  the  country 
round.  A native  of  that  region  saw  fit  to  build  his 
house  very  near  it,  and,  having  a fancy  that  it  might 
blow  down  some  time  or  other,  and  exterminate  him- 
self and  any  incidental  relatives  who  might  be  stop- 
ping ” or  tarrying  ” with  him,  — also  laboring  under 
the  delusion  that  human  life  is  under  all  circumstances 
to  be  preferred  to  vegetable  existence,  — had  the  great 
poplar  cut  down.  It  is  so  easy  to  say,  It  is  only  a 
poplar,”  and  so  much  harder  to  replace  its  living  cone 
than  to  build  a granite  obelisk  ! 

I must  tell  you  about  some  of  my  tree-wives.  I was 
at  one  period  of  my  life  much  devoted  to  the  young 
lady-population  of  Rhode  Island,  a small  but  delight- 
ful State  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pawtucket.  The 
number  of  inhabitants  being  not  very  large,  I had 
leisure,  during  my  visits  to  the  Providence  Plantations, 
to  inspect  the  face  of  the  country  in  the  intervals  of 
more  fascinating  studies  of  physiognomy.  I heard 
some  talk  of  a great  elm  a short  distance  from  the  lo- 
cality just  mentioned.  ‘‘  Let  us  see  the  great  elm,” 
— I said,  and  proceeded  to  find  it,  — knowing  that  it 
was  on  a certain  farm  in  a place  called  J ohnston,  if 
I remember  rightly.  I shall  never  forget  my  ride  and 
my  introduction  to  the  great  J ohnston  elm. 

I always  tremble  for  a celebrated  tree  when  I ap- 
proach it  for  the  first  time.  Provincialism  has  no 
scale  of  excellence  in  man  or  vegetable ; it  never 
knows  a first-rate  article  of  either  kind  when  it  has  it, 
and  is  constantly  taking  second  and  third  rate  ones 
for  Nature’s  best.  I have  often  fancied  the  tree  was 
afraid  of  me,  and  that  a sort  of  shiver  came  over  it  as 
over  a betrothed  maiden  when  she  first  stands  before 


234  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  unknown  to  whom  she  has  been  plighted.  Before 
the  measuring  tape  the  proudest  tree  of  them  all  quails 
and  shrinks  into  itself.  All  those  stories  of  four  or 
five  men  stretching  their  arms  around  it  and  not 
touching  each  other’s  fingers,  of  one’s  pacing  the 
shadow  at  noon  and  making  it  so  many  hundred  feet, 
die  upon  its  leafy  lips  in  the  presence  of  the  awful  rib- 
bon which  has  strangled  so  many  false  pretensions. 

As  I rode  along  the  pleasant  way,  watching  eagerly 
for  the  object  of  my  journey,  the  rounded  tops  of  the 
elms  rose  from  time  to  time  at  the  road-side.  Wher- 
ever one  looked  taller  and  fuller  than  the  rest,  I asked 
myself,  — Is  this  it?  ” But  as  I drew  nearer,  they 
grew  smaller,  — or  it  proved,  perhaps,  that  two  stand- 
ing in  a line  had  looked  like  one,  and  so  deceived  me. 
At  last,  all  at  once,  when  I was  not  thinking  of  it,  — 
I declare  to  you  it  makes  my  fiesh  creep  when  I think 
of  it  now,  — all  at  once  I saw  a great  green  cloud 
swelling  in  the  horizon,  so  vast,  so  symmetrical,  of 
such  Olympian  majesty  and  imperial  supremacy 
among  the  lesser  forest-growths,  that  my  heart  stopped 
short,  then  jumped  at  my  ribs  as  a hunter  springs  at  a 
five-barred  gate,  and  I felt  all  through  me,  without 
need  of  uttering  the  words,  — “ This  is  it ! ” 

You  will  find  this  tree  described,  with  many  others, 
in  the  excellent  Report  upon  the  Trees  and  Shrubs  of 
Massachusetts.  The  author  has  given  my  friend  the 
Professor  credit  for  some  of  his  measurements,  but 
measured  this  tree  himself,  carefully.  It  is  a grand 
elm  for  size  of  trunk,  spread  of  limbs,  and  muscular 
development,  — one  of  the  first,  perhaps  the  first,  of 
the  first  class  of  New  England  elms. 

The  largest  actual  girth  I have  ever  found  at  five 
feet  from  the  ground  is  in  the  great  elm  lying  a stone’s 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  235 

throw  or  two  north  of  the  main  road  (if  my  points  of 
compass  are  right)  in  Springfield.  But  this  has  much 
the  appearance  of  having  been  formed  by  the  union  of 
two  trunks  growing  side  by  side. 

The  West-Springfield  elm  and  one  upon  North- 
ampton meadows  belong  also  to  the  first  class  of 
trees. 

There  is  a noble  old  wreck  of  an  elm  at  Hatfield, 
which  used  to  spread  its  claws  out  over  a circumfer- 
ence of  thirty-five  feet  or  more  before  they  covered 
the  foot  of  its  bole  up  with  earth.  This  is  the 
American  elm  most  like  an  oak  of  any  I have  ever 
seen. 

The  Sheffield  elm  is  equally  remarkable  for  size  and 
perfection  of  form.  I have  seen  nothing  that  comes 
near  it  in  Berkshire  County,  and  few  to  compare  with 
it  anywhere.  I am  not  sure  that  I remember  any 
other  first-class  elms  in  New  England,  but  there  may 
be  many. 

— What  makes  a first-class  elm  ? — Why,  size,  in 
the  first  place,  and  chiefly.  Anything  over  twenty 
feet  of  clear  girth,  five  feet  above  the  ground,  and 
with  a spread  of  branches  a hundred  feet  across,  may 
claim  that  title,  according  to  my  scale.  All  of  them, 
with  the  questionable  exception  of  the  Springfield 
tree  above  referred  to,  stop,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes,  at  about  twenty -two  or  twenty-three  feet  of 
girth  and  a hundred  and  twenty  of  spread. 

Elms  of  the  second  class,  generally  ranging  from 
fourteen  to  eighteen  feet,  are  comparatively  common. 
^The  queen  of  them  all  is  that  glorious  tree  near  one  of 
the  churches  in  Springfield.  Beautiful  and  stately  she 
is  beyond  all  praise.  The  great  tree  ” on  Boston 
common  comes  in  the  second  rank,  as  does  the  one  at 


236  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

Cohasset,  which  used  to  have,  and  probably  has  still, 
a head  as  round  as  an  apple-tree,  and  that  at  Newbury- 
port,  with  scores  of  others  which  might  be  mentioned. 
These  last  two  have  perhaps  been  over-celebrated. 
Both,  however,  are  pleasing  vegetables.  The  poor  old 
Pittsfield  elm  lives  on  its  past  reputation.  A wig  of 
false  leaves  is  indispensable  to  make  it  presentable. 

[I  don’t  doubt  there  may  be  some  monster-elm  or 
other,  vegetating  green,  but  inglorious,  in  some  remote 
New  England  village,  which  only  wants  a sacred  singer 
to  make  it  celebrated.  Send  us  your  measurements^ 
— (certified  by  the  postmaster,  to  avoid  possible  im- 
position), — circmnference  five  feet  from  soil,  length 
of  line  from  bough-end  to  bough-end,  and  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done  for  you.] 

— I wish  somebody  would  get  us  up  the  following 
work : — 

STLVA  NOVANGLICA. 

Photographs  of  New  England  Elms  and  other  Trees, 
taken  upon  the  Same  Scale  of  Magnitude.  With  Let- 
ter-Press Descriptions,  by  a Distinguished  Literary 
Gentleman.  Boston & Co.  185  . . 

The  same  camera  should  be  used,  — so  far  as  pos- 
sible, — at  a fixed  distance.  Our  friend,  who  has 
given  us  so  many  interesting  figures  in  his  “ Trees  of 
America,”  must  not  think  this  Prospectus  invades  his 
province  ; a dozen  portraits,  with  lively  descriptions, 
would  be  a pretty  complement  to  his  large  work,  which, 
so  far  as  published,  I find  excellent.  If  my  plan  were 
carried  out,  and  another  series  of  a dozen  English 
trees  photographed  on  the  same  scale,  the  comparison 
would  be  charming. 

It  has  always  been  a favorite  idea  of  mine  to  bring 
the  life  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World  face  to  face, 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  237 

by  an  accurate  comparison  of  their  various  types  of 
organization.  We  should  begin  with  man,  of  course  ; 
institute  a large  and  exact  comparison  between  the 
development  of  la  pianta  umana^  as  Alfieri  called  it, 
in  different  sections  of  each  country,  in  the  different 
callings,  at  different  ages,  estimating  height,  weight, 
force  by  the  dynamometer  and  the  spirometer,  and 
finishing  off  with  a series  of  typical  photographs,  giv- 
ing the  principal  national  physiognomies.  Mr.  Hutch- 
inson has  given  us  some  excellent  English  data  to 
begin  with. 

Then  I would  follow  this  up  by  contrasting  the  vari- 
ous parallel  forms  of  life  in  the  two  continents.  Our 
naturalists  have  often  referred  to  this  incidentally  or 
expressly ; but  the  animus  of  Nature  in  the  two  half 
globes  of  the  planet  is  so  momentous  a point  of  interest 
to  our  race,  that  it  should  be  made  a subject  of  ex- 
press and  elaborate  study.  Go  out  with  me  into  that 
walk  which  we  call  the  Mall^  and  look  at  the  English 
and  American  elms.  The  American  elm  is  tall,  grace- 
ful, slender-sprayed,  and  drooping  as  if  from  languor. 
The  English  elm  is  compact,  robust,  holds  its  branches 
up,  and  carries  its  leaves  for  weeks  longer  than  our 
own  native  tree. 

Is  this  typical  of  the  creative  force  on  the  two  sides 
of  the  ocean,  or  not  ? Nothing  but  a careful  compari- 
son through  the  whole  realm  of  life  can  answer  this 
question. 

There  is  a parallelism  without  identity  in  the  animal 
and  vegetable  life  of  the  two  continents,  which  favors 
the  task  of  comparison  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
J ust  as  we  have  two  trees  alike  in  many  ways,  yet  not 
the  same,  both  elms,  yet  easily  distinguishable,  just  so 
we  have  a complete  flora  and  a fauna,  which,  parting 


238  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

from  the  same  ideal,  embody  it  with  various  modifica- 
tions. Inventive  power  is  the  only  quality  of  which 
the  Creative  Intelligence  seems  to  be  economical ; just 
as  with  our  largest  human  minds,  that  is  the  divinest 
of  faculties,  and  the  one  that  most  exhausts  the  mind 
which  exercises  it.  As  the  same  patterns  have  very 
commonly  been  followed,  we  can  see  which  is  worked 
out  in  the  largest  spirit,  and  determine  the  exact  lim- 
itations under  which  the  Creator  places  the  movement 
of  life  in  all  its  manifestations  in  either  locality.  We 
should  find  ourselves  in  a very  false  position,  if  it 
should  prove  that  Anglo-Saxons  can’t  live  here,  but 
die  out,  if  not  kept  up  by  fresh  supplies,  as  Dr.  Knox 
and  other  more  or  less  wise  persons  have  maintained. 
It  may  turn  out  the  other  way,  as  I have  heard  one  of 
our  literary  celebrities  argue,  — and  though  I took 
the  other  side,  I liked  his  best,  — that  the  American 
is  the  Englishman  reinforced. 

— Will  you  walk  out  and  look  at  those  elms  with 
me  after  breakfast  ? — I said  to  the  schoolmistress. 

[I  am  not  going  to  tell  lies  about  it,  and  say  that 
she  blushed,  — as  I suppose  she  ought  to  have  done, 
at  such  a tremendous  piece  of  gallantry  as  that  was 
for  our  boarding-house.  On  the  contrary,  she  turned 
a little  pale,  — but  smiled  brightly  and  said,  — Yes, 
with  pleasure,  but  she  must  walk  towards  her  school 
— She  went  for  her  bonnet.  — The  old  gentleman  op- 
posite followed  her  with  his  eyes,  and  said  he  wished 
he  was  a young  fellow.  Presently  she  came  down, 
looking  very  pretty  in  her  half-mourning  bonnet,  and 
carrying  a school-book  in  her  hand.] 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  239 


MY  FIRST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

This  is  the  shortest  way,  — she  said,  as  we  came  to 
a corner.  — Then  we  won’t  take  it,  — said  I.  — The 
schoolmistress  laughed  a little,  and  said  she  was  ten 
minutes  early,  so  she  could  go  round. 

We  walked  under  Mr.  Paddock’s  row  of  English 
elms."  The  gray  squirrels  were  out  looking  for  their 
breakfasts,  and  one  of  them  came  toward  us  in  light, 
soft,  intermittent  leaps,  until  he  was  close  to  the  rail 
of  the  burial-ground.  He  was  on  a grave  with  a broad 
blue-slate-stone  at  its  head,  and  a shrub  growing  on  it. 
The  stone  said  this  was  the  grave  of  a young  man  who 
was  the  son  of  an  Honorable  gentleman,  and  vdio  died 
a himdred  years  ago  and  more.  — Oh,  yes,  died^  — 
with  a small  triangular  mark  in  one  breast,  and  an- 
other smaller  opposite,  in  his  back,  where  another 
young  man’s  rapier  had  slid  through  his  body ; and  so 
he  lay  down  out  there  on  the  Common,  and  was 
found  cold  the  next  morning,  with  the  night-dews  and 
the  death-dews  mingled  on  his  forehead. 

Let  us  have  one  look  at  poor  Benjamin’s  grave,  — 
said  I.  — His  bones  lie  where  his  body  was  laid  so 
long  ago,  and  where  the  stone  says  they  lie,  — which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  of  most  of  the  tenants  of  this 
and  several  other  burial-grounds. 

[The  most  accursed  act  of  Vandalism  ever  com- 
mitted within  my  knowledge  was  the  uprooting  of  the 
ancient  gravestones  in  three  at  least  of  our  city  burial- 
grounds,  and  one  at  least  just  outside  the  city,  and 
planting  them  in  rows  to  suit  the  taste  for  symmetry 

« Mr.  Paddock’s  row  of  English  elms  ” has  gone,  but  “ Poor 
Benjamin  ” lies  quietly  under  the  same  stone  the  schoolmistress 
saw  through  the  iron  rails. 


240  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

of  the  perpetrators.  Many  years  ago,  when  this  dis- 
graceful process  was  going  on  under  my  eyes,  I ad- 
dressed an  indignant  remonstrance  to  a leading  jour- 
nal. I suppose  it  was  deficient  in  literary  elegance, 
or  too  warm  in  its  language  ; for  no  notice  was  taken 
of  it,  and  the  hyena-horror  was  allowed  to  complete  it- 
self in  the  face  of  daylight.  I have  never  got  over  it. 
The  bones  of  my  own  ancestors,  being  entombed,  lie 
beneath  their  own  tablet ; but  the  upright  stones  have 
been  shuffled  about  like  chessmen,  and  nothing  short 
of  the  Day  of  Judgment  will  tell  whose  dust  lies  be- 
neath any  of  those  records,  meant  by  affection  to  mark 
one  small  spot  as  sacred  to  some  cherished  memory. 
Shame ! shame  ! shame ! — that  is  all  I can  say.  It 
was  on  public  thoroughfares,  under  the  eye  of  author- 
ity, that  this  infamy  was  enacted.  The  red  Indians 
would  have  known  better ; the  selectmen  of  an  Afri- 
can kraal-village  would  have  had  more  respect  for 
their  ancestors.  I should  like  to  see  the  gravestones 
which  have  been  disturbed  all  removed,  and  the 
ground  levelled,  leaving  the  fiat  tombstones ; epitaphs 
were  never  famous  for  truth,  but  the  old  reproach  of 
‘‘  Here  lies  ” never  had  such  a wholesale  illustration 
as  in  these  outraged  burial-places,  where  the  stone 
does  lie  above  and  the  bones  do  not  lie  beneath.] 

Stop  before  we  turn  away,  and  breathe  a woman’s 
sigh  over  poor  Benjamin’s  dust.  Love  killed  him,  I 
think.  Twenty  years  old,  and  out  there  fighting  an- 
other young  fellow  on  the  Common,  in  the  cool  of  that 
old  July  evening  ; — yes,  there  must  have  been  love  at 
the  bottom  of  it. 

The  schoolmistress  dropped  a rosebud  she  had  in 
her  hand,  through  the  rails,  upon  the  grave  of  Benja- 
min Woodbridge.  That  was  all  her  comment  upon 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  241 

what  I told  her.  — How  women  love  Love ! said  I ; — 
but  she  did  not  speak. 

We  came  opposite  the  head  of  a place  or  court  run- 
ning: eastward  from  the  main  street.  — Look  down 
there,  — I said,  — My  friend,  the  Professor,  lived  in 
that  house  at  the  left  hand,  next  the  further  corner, 
for  years  and  years.  He  died  out  of  it,  the  other  day. 
— Died  ? — said  the  schoolmistress.  — Certainly,  — 
said  I.  — We  die  out  of  houses,  just  as  we  die  out  of 
our  bodies.  A commercial  smash  kills  a hundred 
men’s  houses  for  them,  as  a railroad  crash  kills  their 
mortal  frames  and  drives  out  the  immortal  tenants. 
Men  sicken  of  houses  until  at  last  they  quit  them,  as 
the  soul  leaves  its  body  when  it  is  tired  of  its  infirmi- 
ties. The  body  has  been  called  ‘^the  house  we  live 
in  ” ; the  house  is  quite  as  much  the  body  we  live  in. 
Shall  I tell  you  some  things  the  Professor  said  the 
other  day  ? — Do  ! — said  the  schoolmistress. 

A man’s  body,  — said  the  Professor,  — is  whatever 
is  occupied  by  his  will  and  his  sensibility.  The  small 
room  down  there,  where  I wrote  those  papers  you  re- 
member reading,  was  much  more  a portion  of  my  body 
than  a paralytic’s  senseless  and  motionless  arm  or  leg 
is  of  his. 

The  soul  of  a man  has  a series  of  concentric  envel- 
opes round  it,  like  the  core  of  an  onion,  or  the  inner- 
most of  a nest  of  boxes.  First,  he  has  his  natural  gar- 
ment of  flesh  and  blood.  Then,  his  artificial  integu- 
ments, with  their  true  skin  of  solid  stuffs,  their  cuticle 
of  lighter  tissues,  and  their  variously-tinted  pigments. 
Thirdly,  his  domicile,  be  it  a single  chamber  or  a 
stately  mansion.  And  then,  the  whole  visible  world, 
in  which  Time  buttons  him  up  as  in  a loose  outside 
wrapper. 


16 


242  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

You  shall  observe,  — the  Professor  said,  — for,  like 
Mr.  John  Hunter  and  other  great  men,  he  brings  in 
that  shall  with  great  effect  sometimes,  — you  shall  ob- 
serve that  a man’s  clothing  or  series  of  envelopes  does 
after  a certain  time  mould  itself  upon  his  individual 
nature.  We  know  this  of  our  hats,  and  are  always 
reminded  of  it  when  we  happen  to  put  them  on  wrong 
side  foremost.  We  soon  find  that  the  beaver  is  a hol- 
low cast  of  the  skull,  with  all  its  irregular  bumps  and 
depressions.  Just  so  all  that  clothes  a man,  even  to 
the  blue  sky  which  caps  his  head,  — a little  loosely,  — 
shapes  itself  to  fit  each  particular  being  beneath  it. 
Farmers,  sailors,  astronomers,  poets,  lovers,  condemned 
criminals,  all  find  it  different,  according  to  the  eyes 
with  which  they  severally  look. 

But  our  houses  shape  themselves  palpably  on  our 
inner  and  outer  natures.  See  a householder  breaking 
up  and  you  will  be  sure  of  it.  There  is  a shell-fish 
which  builds  all  manner  of  smaller  shells  into  the 
walls  of  its  own.  A house  is  never  a home  until  we 
have  crusted  it  with  the  spoils  of  a hundred  lives  be- 
sides those  of  our  own  past.  See  what  these  are  and 
you  can  tell  what  the  occupant  is. 

I had  no  idea,  — said  the  Professor,  — until  I pulled 
up  my  domestic  establishment  the  other  day,  what  an 
enormous  quantity  of  roots  I had  been  making  during 
the  years  I was  planted  there.  Why,  there  was  n’t  a 
nook  or  a corner  that  some  fibre  had  not  worked  its 
way  into  ; and  when  I gave  the  last  wrench,  each  of 
them  seemed  to  shriek  like  a mandrake  as  it  broke  its 
hold  and  came  away. 

There  is  nothing  that  happens,  you  know,  which 
must  not  inevitably,  and  which  does  not  actually,  pho- 
tograph itself  in  every  conceivable  aspect  and  in  all 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  243 

dimensions.  The  infinite  galleries  of  the  Past  await 
but  one  brief  process  and  all  their  pictures  will  be 
called  out  and  fixed  forever.  We  had  a curious  il- 
lustration of  the  great  fact  on  a very  humble  scale. 
When  a certain  bookcase,  long  standing  in  one  place, 
for  which  it  was  built,  was  removed,  there  was  the  ex- 
act image  on  the  wall  of  the  whole,  and  of  many  of  its 
portions.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  picture  was  another, 
— the  precise  outline  of  a map  which  had  hung  on  the 
wall  before  the  bookcase  was  built.  We  had  all  for- 
gotten everything  about  the  map  until  we  saw  its  pho- 
tograph on  the  wall.  Then  we  remembered  it,  as  some 
day  or  other  we  may  remember  a sin  which  has  been 
built  over  and  covered  up,  when  this  lower  universe  is 
pulled  away  from  before  the  wall  of  Infinity,  where 
the  wrong-doing  stands  self-recorded. 

The  Professor  lived  in  that  house  a long  time  — 
not  twenty  years,  but  pretty  near  it.  When  he  en- 
tered that  door,  two  shadows  glided  over  the  thresh- 
old; five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when  he  passed 
through  it  for  the  last  time,  — and  one  of  the  shadows 
was  claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer  than  his  own. 
What  changes  he  saw  in  that  quiet  place ! Death 
rained  through  every  roof  but  his  ; children  came  into 
life,  grew  to  maturity,  wedded,  faded  away,  threw  them- 
selves away ; the  whole  drama  of  life  was  played  in 
that  stock  company’s  theatre  of  a dozen  houses,  one  of 
which  was  his,  and  no  deep  sorrow  or  severe  calamity 
ever  entered  his  dwelling.  Peace  be  to  those  walls, 
forever,  — the  Professor  said,  — for  the  many  pleas- 
ant years  he  has  passed  within  them! 

The  Professor  has  a friend,  now  living  at  a distance, 
who  has  been  with  him  in  many  of  his  changes  of 
place,  and  who  follows  him  in  imagination  with  tender 


244  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


interest  wherever  he  goes. — In  that  little  court,  where 
he  lived  in  gay  loneliness  so  long,  — 

— in  his  autumnal  sojourn  by  the  Connecticut,  where 
it  comes  loitering  down  from  its  mountain  fastnesses 
like  a great  lord,  swallowing  up  the  small  proprietary 
rivulets  very  quietly  as  it  goes,  until  it  gets  proud  and 
swollen  and  wantons  in  huge  luxurious  oxbows  about 
the  fair  Northampton  meadows,  and  at  last  overflows 
the  oldest  inhabitant’s  memory  in  profligate  freshets 
at  Hartford  and  all  along  its  lower  shores,  — up  in 
that  caravansary  on  the  banks  of  the  stream  where 
Ledyard  launched  his  log  canoe,  and  the  jovial  old 
Colonel  used  to  lead  the  Commencement  processions, 
— where  blue  Ascutney  looked  down  from  the  far  dis- 
tance, and  the  hills  of  Beulah,  as  the  Professor  always 
called  them,  rolled  up  the  opposite  horizon  in  soft 
climbing  masses,  so  suggestive  of  the  Pilgrim’s  Heav- 
enward Path  that  he  used  to  look  through  his  old 

Dollond  ” to  see  if  the  Shining  Ones  were  not  within 
range  of  sight,  — sweet  visions,  sweetest  in  those  Sun- 
day walks  which  carried  them  by  the  peaceful  Common, 
through  the  solemn  village  lying  in  cataleptic  stillness 
under  the  shadow  of  the  rod  of  Moses,  to  the  terminus 
of  their  harmless  stroll,  — the  patulous  fage,  in  the 
Professor’s  classic  dialect,  — the  spreading  beech,  in 
more  familiar  phrase,  — [stop  and  breathe  here  a 
moment,  for  the  sentence  is  not  done  yet,  and  we  have 
another  long  journey  before  us,]  — 

— and  again  once  more  up  among  those  other  hills 
that  shut  in  the  amber-flowing  Housatonic,  — dark 
stream,  but  clear,  like  the  lucid  orbs  that  shine  be- 
neath the  lids  of  auburn  - haired,  sherry-wine-eyed 
demi-blondes,  — in  the  home  overlooking  the  winding 
stream  and  the  smooth,  flat  meadow  ; looked  down 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  EEEAKFAST-TABLE.  245 


upon  by  wild  hills,  where  the  tracks  of  bears  and  cata- 
mounts may  yet  sometimes  be  seen  upon  the  winter 
snow ; facing  the  twin  summits  which  rise  in  the  far 
North,  the  highest  waves  of  the  great  land-storm  in 
all  this  billowy  region,  — suggestive  to  mad  fancies 
of  the  breasts  of  a half-buried  Titaness,  stretched  out 
by  a stray  thunderbolt,  and  hastily  hidden  away  be- 
neath the  leaves  of  the  forest,  — in  that  home  where 
seven  blessed  summers  were  passed,  which  stand  in 
memory  like  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  in  the  be- 
atific vision  of  the  holy  dreamer,  — 

— in  that  modest  dwelling  we  were  just  looking  at, 
not  glorious,  yet  not  unlovely  in  the  youth  of  its  drab 
and  mahogany,  — full  of  great  and  little  boys’  play- 
things from  top  to  bottom,  — in  all  these  summer  or 
winter  nests  he  was  always  at  home  and  always  wel- 
come. 

This  long  articulated  sigh  of  reminiscences,  — this 
calenture  which  shows  me  the  maple-shadowed  plains 
of  Berkshire  and  the  mountain-circled  green  of  Graf- 
ton beneath  the  salt  waves  which  come  feeling  their 
way  along  the  wall  at  my  feet,  restless  and  soft-touch- 
ing as  blind  men’s  busy  fingers,  — is  for  that  friend  of 
mine  " who  looks  into  the  waters  of  the  Patapsco  and 
sees  beneath  them  the  same  visions  which  paint  them- 
selves for  me  in  the  green  depths  of  the  Charles. 

® “ That  friend  of  mine  ’’  was  the  late  Joseph  Roby,  once  a 
fellow-teacher  with  me  in  the  Medical  School  of  Dartmouth  Col- 
lege, afterwards  professor  in  the  University  of  Maryland.  He 
was  a man  of  keen  intellect  and  warm  affections,  but  out  of  the 
range  of  his  official  duties  seen  of  few  and  understood  only  by  a 
very  limited  number  of  intimates.  I used  to  refer  to  my  wise 
friend  so  often,  and  he  was  so  rarely  visible,  that  some  doubted 
if  there  was  any  such  individual,  or  if  he  were  not  of  the  imper- 
sonal nature  of  Sairy  Gamp's  Mrs.  Harris.  I remember  Emer- 
son was  one  of  these  smiling  sceptics. 


246  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— Did  I talk  all  this  off  to  the  schoolmistress  ? — 
Why,  no,  — of  course  not.  I have  been  talking  with 
you,  the  reader,  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  You  don’t 
think  I should  expect  any  woman  to  listen  to  such  a 
sentence  as  that  long  one,  without  giving  her  a chance 
to  put  in  a word  ? 

— What  did  I say  to  the  schoolmistress  ? — Permit 
me  one  moment.  I don’t  doubt  your  delicacy  and 
good-breeding ; but  in  this  particular  case,  as  I was 
allowed  the  privilege  of  walking  alone  with  a very 
interesting  young  woman,  you  must  allow  me  to  re- 
mark, in  the  classic  version  of  a familiar  phrase,  used 
by  our  Master  Benjamin  Franklin,  it  is  nullum  tui 
negotii^ 

When  the  schoolmistress  and  I reached  the  school- 
room door,  the  damask  roses  I spoke  of  were  so  much 
heightened  in  color  by  exercise  that  I felt  sure  it 
would  be  useful  to  her  to  take  a stroll  like  this  every 
morning,  and  made  up  my  mind  I would  ask  her  to 
let  me  join  her  again. 

EXTRACT  FROM  MY  PRIVATE  JOURNAL. 

(7h  he  burned  unread^ 

I am  afraid  I have  been  a fool ; for  I have  told  as 
much  of  myself  to  this  young  person  as  if  she  were 
of  that  ripe  and  discreet  age  which  invites  confidence 
and  expansive  utterance.  I have  been  low-spirited 
and  listless,  lately,  — it  is  coffee,  I think,  — (I  ob- 
serve that  which  is  bought  ready-ground  never  affects 
the  head),  — and  I notice  that  I tell  my  secrets  too 
easily  when  I am  down-hearted. 

There  are  inscriptions  on  our  hearts,  which,  like 
that  on  Dighton  Rock,  are  never  to  be  seen  except 
at  dead-low  tide. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  247 

There  is  a woman’s  footstep  on  the  sand  at  the  side 
of  my  deepest  ocean-buried  inscription  ! 

— Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! a thousand  times,  no  ! — Yet 
what  is  this  which  has  been  shaping  itself  in  my  soul  ? 

— Is  it  a thought?  — is  it  a dream?  — is  it  passion? 

— Then  I know  what  comes  next. 

— The  Asylum  stands  on  a bright  and  breezy  hill ; 
those  glazed  corridors  are  pleasant  to  walk  in,  in  bad 
weather.  But  there  are  iron  bars  to  all  the  windows. 
When  it  is  fair,  some  of  us  can  stroll  outside  that  very 
high  fence.  But  I never  see  much  life  in  those 
groups  I sometimes  meet ; — and  then  the  careful 
man  watches  them  so  closely ! How  I remember 
that  sad  company  I used  to  pass  on  fine  mornings, 
when  I was  a schoolboy ! — B.,  with  his  arms  full  of 
yellow  weeds,  — ore  from  the  gold  mines  which  he 
discovered  long  before  we  heard  of  California, — Y., 
born  to  millions,  crazed  by  too  much  plum-cake  (the 
boys  said),  dogged,  explosive,  — made  a Polyphemus 
of  my  weak-eyed  schoolmaster,  by  a vicious  flirt  with 
a stick,  — (the  multi-millionnaires  sent  him  a trifle, 
it  was  said,  to  buy  another  eye  with ; but  boys  are 
jealous  of  rich  folks,  and  I don’t  doubt  the  good 
people  made  him  easy  for  life),  — how  I remember 
them  all ! 

I recollect,  as  all  do,  the  story  of  the  Hall  of  Eblis, 
in  ‘Wathek,”  and  how  each  shape,  as  it  lifted  its 
hand  from  its  breast,  showed  its  heart,  — a burning 
coal.  The  real  Hall  of  Eblis  stands  on  yonder  sum- 
mit. Go  there  on  the  next  visiting-day  and  ask  that 
figure  crouched  in  the  corner,  huddled  up  like  those 
Indian  mummies  and  skeletons  found  buried  in  the 
sitting  posture,  to  lift  its  hand,  — look  upon  its  heart, 
and  behold,  not  fire,  but  ashes.  — No,  I must  not 


248  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

think  of  such  an  ending!  Dying  would  he  a much 
more  gentlemanly  way  of  meeting  the  difficulty. 
Make  a will  and  leave  her  a house  or  two  and  some 
stocks,  and  other  little  financial  conveniences,  to  take 
away  her  necessity  for  keeping  school. — I wonder 
what  nice  young  man’s  feet  would  be  in  my  French 
slippers  before  six  months  were  over!  Well,  what 
then  ? If  a man  really  loves  a woman,  of  course  he 
would  n’t  marry  her  for  the  world,  if  he  were  not 
quite  sure  that  he  was  the  best  person  she  could  by 
any  possibility  marry. 

— It  is  odd  enough  to  read  over  what  I have 
just  been  writing.  — It  is  the  merest  fancy  that  ever 
was  in  the  world.  I shall  never  be  married.  She 
will;  and  if  she  is  as  pleasant  as  she  has  been  so 
far,  I will  give  her  a silver  tea-set,  and  go  and  take 
tea  with  her  and  her  husband,  sometimes.  No  coffee, 
I hope,  though, — it  depresses  me  sadly.  I feel  very 
miserably ; — they  must  have  been  grinding  it  at 
home.  — Another  morning  walk  will  be  good  for  me, 
and  I don’t  doubt  the  schoolmistress  wiU  be  glad  of 
a little  fresh  air  before  school. 

— The  throbbing  flushes  of  the  poetical  intermit. 
tent  have  been  coming  over  me  from  time  to  time 
of  late.  Did  you  ever  see  that  electrical  experiment 
which  consists  in  passing  a flash  through  letters  of 
gold  leaf  in  a darkened  room,  whereupon  some  name 
or  legend  springs  out  of  the  darkness  in  characters  of 
fire? 

There  are  songs  all  written  out  in  my  soul,  which 
I could  read,  if  the  flash  might  pass  through  them,  — 
but  the  fire  must  come  down  from  heaven.  Ah  ! but 
what  if  the  stormy  nimbus  of  youthful  passion  has 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  249 


blown  by,  and  one  asks  for  lightning  from  the  ragged 
cirrus  of  dissolving  aspirations,  or  the  silvered  cumu- 
lus of  sluggish  satiety?  I will  call  on  her  whom  the 
dead  poets  believed  in,  whom  living  ones  no  longer 
worship,  — the  immortal  maid,  who,  name  her  what 
you  will,  — Goddess,  Muse,  Spirit  of  Beauty,  — sits 
by  the  pillow  of  every  youthful  poet  and  bends  over 
his  pale  forehead  until  her  tresses  lie  upon  his  cheek 
and  rain  their  gold  into  his  dreams. 

MUSA. 

O my  lost  Beauty  I — hast  thou  folded  quite 
Thy  wings  of  morning  light 
Beyond  those  iron  gates 

Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  haggard  Fates, 

And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 
To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 

Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in  his  icy  streams  ? 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair ! — 

Have  I not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong 

And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  ? 

Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 

Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  altar  burn  ? 

Come  to  me ! — I will  flood  thy  silent  shrine 
With  my  souPs  sacred  wine, 

And  heap  thy  marble  floors 

As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores 

In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 
And  lapped  in  Orient  seas. 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in  the  breeze. 

Come  to  me!  — thou  shalt  feed  on  honied  words. 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds;  — 

No  wailing  bulbul’s  throat, 


250  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


No  melting  dulcimer’s  melodious  note, 

When  o’er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so  velvet- smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 
Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  twines,  — 

Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moonlight  shines, 

And  Summer’s  fruited  gems. 

And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn’s  berried  stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 

Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves. 

Whose  gray,  high- shouldered  stones. 

Carved  with  old  names  Life’s  time-worn  roll  disowns, 
Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o’er  the  crumbled  bones 
Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While  the  sad  pilgrim  watched  to  scare  the  wolf  away. 

Spread  o’er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 

Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom,  — for  me  no  more, — 

The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor. 

And  clustering  nenuphars 

Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced  stars! 

Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blossoms  shed ! — 
Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 

While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from  Indian  isles, 

And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy  men  in  prayer. 

Oh,  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 
With  thrills  of  wild  sweet  pain!  — 

On  life’s  autumnal  blast, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  251 


Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth’s  passion-flowers  are  cast,  — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  last ! — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine. 

And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  ‘ ‘ Forever  thine/’ 


XI. 

[The  company  looked  a little  flustered  one  morning 
when  I came  in,  — so  much  so,  that  I inquired  of  my 
neighbor,  the  divinity-student,  what  had  been  going 
on.  It  appears  that  the  young  fellow  whom  they  call 
J ohn  had  taken  advantage  of  my  being  a little  late  (I 
having  been  rather  longer  than  usual  dressing  that 
morning)  to  circulate  several  questions  involving  a 
quibble  or  play  upon  words,  — in  short,  containing 
that  indignity  to  the  human  understanding,  condemned 
in  the  passages  from  the  distinguished  moralist  of  the 
last  century  and  the  illustrious  historian  of  the  pres- 
ent, which  I cited  on  a former  occasion,  and  known  as 
a 'pun.  After  breakfast,  one  of  the  boarders  handed 
me  a small  roll  of  paper  containing  some  of  the 
questions  and  their  answers.  I subjoin  two  or  three 
of  them,  to  show  what  a tendency  there  is  to  frivolity 
and  meaningless  talk  in  young  persons  of  a certain 
sort,  when  not  restrained  by  the  presence  of  more  re- 
flective natures.  — It  was  asked,  Why  tertian  and 
quartan  fevers  were  like  certain  short-lived  insects.” 
Some  interesting  physiological  relation  would  be  nat- 
urally suggested.  The  inquirer  blushes  to  find  that 
the  answer  is  in  the  paltry  equivocation,  that  they  ship 
a day  or  two.  — Why  an  Englishman  must  go  to  the 
Continent  to  weaken  his  grog  or  punch.”  The  an- 
swer proves  to  have  no  relation  whatever  to  the  tern- 


252  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

perance-movement,  as  no  better  reason  is  given  than 
that  island-  (or,  as  it  is  absurdly  written,  He  and) 
water  won’t  mix.  — But  when  I came  to  the  next 
question  and  its  answer,  I felt  that  patience  ceased  to 
be  a virtue.  “ Why  an  onion  is  like  a piano  ” is  a 
query  that  a person  of  sensibility  would  be  slow  to 
propose;  but  that  in  an  educated  community  an  in- 
dividual could  be  found  to  answer  it  in  these  words,  — 
‘‘  Because  it  smell  odious,”  quasi^  it ’s  melodious,  — is 
not  credible,  but  too  true.  I can  show  you  the  paper. 

Dear  reader,  I beg  your  pardon  for  repeating  such 
things.  I know  most  conversations  reported  in  books 
are  altogether  above  such  trivial  details,  but  folly  will 
come  up  at  every  table  as  surely  as  purslain  and  chick- 
weed  and  sorrel  will  come  up  in  gardens.  This  young 
fellow  ought  to  have  talked  philosophy,  I know  per- 
fectly well ; but  he  did  n’t,  — he  made  jokes.] 

I am  willing,  — I said,  — to  exercise  your  ingenuity 
in  a rational  and  contemplative  manner.  — No,  I do 
not  proscribe  certain  forms  of  philosophical  specula- 
tion which  involve  an  approach  to  the  absurd  or  the 
ludicrous,  such  as  you  may  find,  for  example,  in  the 
folio  of  the  Keverend  Father  Thomas  Sanchez,  in  his 
famous  Disputations,  ^‘De  Sancto  Matrimonio.”  I 
will  therefore  turn  this  levity  of  yours  to  profit  by 
reading  you  a rhymed  problem,  wrought  out  by  my 
friend  the  Professor. 

THE  DEACON’S  MASTERPIECE: 

OR  THE  WONDERFUL  “ONE-HOSS-SHAY.»» 

A LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a logical  way 


fHE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  253 


It  ran  a hundred  years  to  a day, 

And  then,  of  a sudden,  it  — ah,  but  stay, 

I ’ll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 

Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive; 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down. 

And  Braddock’s  army  was  done  so  brown. 

Left  without  a scalp  to  its  crown. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss-shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I tell  you  what. 
There  is  always  somewhere  a weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  — lurking  still. 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that ’s  the  reason,  beyond  a doubt, 

A chaise  breaks  down^  but  does  n’t  wear  ouL 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do. 

With  an  “ I dew  vum,”  or  an  “ I tell  yeou,’’) 

He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
’n’  the  keounty  ’n’  all  the  kentry  raoun’ ; 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn*  break  daown, 
— “ Fur,”  said  the  Deacon,  “ ’t ’s  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes’  place  mus’  stan’  the  strain; 

’n’  the  way  t’  fix  it,  uz  I maintain. 

Is  only  jest 

T’  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.” 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 


254  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

That  could  nH  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills; 

He  sent  for  lance  wood  to  make  the  thills; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 
The  panels  of  white- wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  “ Settler’s  ellum,’’  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  — they  couldn’t  sell  ’em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips. 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too. 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  “ put  her  through.”  — 

“ There!  ” said  the  Deacon,  “ naow  she  ’ll  dew.” 

Do!  I tell  you,  I rather  guess 
She  was  a wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray. 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 

Children  and  grand-children  — where  were  they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss-shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen  hundred;  — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon’s  Masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; — 

“ Hahnsum  kerridge  ” they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; — 

Running  as  usual ; much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive. 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  255 


In  fact,  there ’s  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I know,  but  a tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it.  — You  Ye  welcome.  — Iso  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November,  — the  Earthquake-day. — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss-shay, 

A general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  nY  be,  — for  the  Deacon’s  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  was  n’t  a chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore. 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a whole^  it  is  past  a doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  ’Fifty-five! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay, 

Drawn  by  a rat- tailed,  ewe- necked  bay. 

“ Huddup!  ” said  the  parson.  — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday’s  text, — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  — Moses  — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet’n’-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a shiver,  and  then  a thrill. 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a spill,  — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet’n’-house  clock,  — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found. 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around? 


256  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground. 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you  ^re  not  a dunce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay. 

Logic  is  logic.  That ’s  all  I say. 

— I think  there  is  one  habit,  — I said  to  our  com- 
pany a day  or  two  afterwards,  — worse  than  that  of 
punning.  It  is  the  gradual  substitution  of  cant  or 
slang  terms  for  words  which  truly  characterize  their 
objects.  I have  known  several  very  genteel  idiots 
whose  whole  vocabulary  had  deliquesced  into  some 
half  dozen  expressions.  All  things  fell  into  one  of 
two  great  categories, — fast  or  slow,  Man’s  chief 
end  was  to  be  a hrich.  When  the  great  calamities  of 
life  overtook  their  friends,  these  last  were  spoken  of 
as  being  a good  deal  cut  up.  Nine  tenths  of  human 
existence  were  summed  up  in  the  single  word,  hore. 
These  expressions  come  to  be  the  algebraic  symbols 
of  minds  which  have  grown  too  weak  or  indolent  to 
discriminate.  They  are  the  blank  checks  of  intel- 
lectual bankruptcy ; — you  may  fill  them  up  with 
what  idea  you  like  ; it  makes  no  difference,  for  there 
are  no  funds  in  the  treasury  upon  which  they  are 
drawn.  Colleges  and  good-for-nothing  smoking-clubs 
are  the  places  where  these  conversational  fungi  spring 
up  most  luxuriantly.  Don’t  think  I undervalue  the 
proper  use  and  application  of  a cant  word  or  phrase. 
It  adds  piquancy  to  conversation,  as  a mushroom  does 
to  a sauce.  But  it  is  no  better  than  a toadstool,  odious 
to  the  sense  and  poisonous  to  the  intellect,  when  it 
spawns  itself  all  over  the  talk  of  men  and  youths 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  257 

capable  of  talking,  as  it  sometimes  does.  As  we  hear 
slang  phraseology,  it  is  commonly  the  dish-water  from 
the  washings  of  English  dandyism,  schoolboy  or  full- 
grown,  wrung  out  of  a three-volume  novel  which  had 
sopped  it  up,  or  decanted  from  the  pictured  urn  of 
Mr.  Verdant  Green,  and  diluted  to  suit  the  provincial 
climate. 

— The  young  fellow  called  J ohn  spoke  up  sharply 
and  said,  it  was  rum  ” to  hear  me  pitchin’  into 
fellers  ” for  goin’  it  in  the  slang  line,”  when  I used 
all  the  flash  words  myself  just  when  I pleased. 

— I replied  with  my  usual  forbearance.  — Cer- 
tainly, to  give  up  the  algebraic  symbol  because  a or 
6 is  often  a cover  for  ideal  nihility,  would  be  unwise. 
I have  heard  a child  laboring  to  express  a certain  con- 
dition, involving  a hitherto  undescribed  sensation  (as 
it  supposed),  all  of  which  could  have  been  sufficiently 
explained  by  the  participle  — hored,  I have  seen  a 
country-clergyman,  with  a one-story  intellect  and  a 
one-horse  vocabulary,  who  has  consumed  his  valuable 
time  (and  mine)  freely,  in  developing  an  opinion  of  a 
brother-minister’s  discourse  which  would  have  been 
abundantly  characterized  by  a peach-down-lipped  soph- 
omore in  the  one  word  — slow.  Let  us  discriminate, 
and  be  shy  of  absolute  proscription.  I am  omniver- 
bivorous  by  nature  and  training.  Passing  by  such 
words  as  are  poisonous,  I can  swallow  most  others,  and 
chew  such  as  I cannot  swallow. 

Dandies  are  not  good  for  much,  but  they  are  good 
for  something.  They  invent  or  keep  in  circulation 
those  conversational  blank  checks  or  counters  just 
spoken  of,  which  intellectual  capitalists  may  some- 
times And  it  worth  their  while  to  borrow  of  them. 
They  are  useful,  too,  in  keeping  up  the  standard  of 
17 


258  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

dress,  whicli,  but  for  them,  would  deteriorate,  and  be- 
come, what  some  old  fools  would  have  it,  a matter  of 
convenience,  and  not  of  taste  and  art.  Yes,  I like 
dandies  well  enough,  — on  one  condition. 

— What  is  that.  Sir  ? — said  the  divinity-student. 

— That  they  have  pluck.  I find  that  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  all  true  dandyism.  A little  boy  dressed  up 
very  fine,  who  puts  his  finger  in  his  mouth  and  takes 
to  crying,  if  other  boys  make  fun  of  him,  looks  very 
silly.  But  if  he  turns  red  in  the  face  and  knotty  in 
the  fists,  and  makes  an  example  of  the  biggest  of  his 
assailants,  throwing  off  his  fine  Leghorn  and  his 
thickly-buttoned  jacket,  if  necessary,  to  consummate 
the  act  of  justice,  his  small  toggery  takes  on  the  splen- 
dors of  the  crested  helmet  that  frightened  Astyanax. 
You  remember  that  the  Duke  said  his  dandy  officers 
were  his  best  officers.  The  Sunday  blood,”  the  su- 
per-superb sartorial  equestrian  of  our  annual  Fast-day, 
is  not  imposing  or  dangerous.  But  such  fellows  as 
Brummel  and  D’Orsay  and  Byron  are  not  to  be 
snubbed  quite  so  easily.  Look  out  for  ‘4a  main  de  fer 
sous  le  gant  de  velours”  (which  I printed  in  Eng- 
lish the  other  day  without  quotation-marks,  thinking 
whether  any  scarahceus  criticus  would  add  this  to  his 
globe  and  roll  in  glory  with  it  into  the  newspapers,  — 
which  he  did  n’t  do  it,  in  the  charming  pleonasm  of 
the  London  language,  and  therefore  I claim  the  sole 
merit  of  exposing  the  same).  A good  many  powerful 
and  dangerous  people  have  had  a decided  dash  of 
dandyism  about  them.  There  was  Alcibiades,  the 
“ curled  son  of  Clinias  ” an  accomplished  young  man, 
but  what  would  be  called  a “ swell  ” in  these  days. 
There  was  Aristoteles,  a very  distinguished  writer,  of 
whom  you  have  heard, — a philosopher,  in  short,  whom 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  259 

it  took  centuries  to  learn,  centuries  to  unlearn,  and 
is  now  going  to  take  a generation  or  more  to  learn 
over  again.  Regular  dandy  he  was.  So  was  Marcus 
Antonius  ; and  though  he  lost  his  game,  he  played  for 
big  stakes,  and  it  was  n’t  his  dandyism  that  spoiled 
his  chance.  Petrarca  was  not  to  be  despised  as  a 
scholar  or  a poet,  but  he  was  one  of  the  same  sort. 
So  was  Sir  Humphrey  Davy ; so  was  Lord  Palmers- 
ton, formerly,  if  I am  not  forgetful.  Yes,  — a dandy 
is  good  for  something  as  such  ; and  dandies  such  as  I 
was  just  speaking  of  have  rocked  this  planet  like  a 
cradle,  — aye,  and  left  it  swinging  to  this  day.  — 
Still,  if  I were  you,  I would  n’t  go  to  the  tailor’s,  on 
the  strength  of  these  remarks,  and  run  up  a long  bill 
which  will  render  pockets  a superfluity  in  your  next 
suit.  Elegans  ‘‘  nascitur^  non  jit^  A man  is  born 
a dandy,  as  he  is  born  a poet.  There  are  heads  that 
can’t  wear  hats  ; there  are  necks  that  can’t  fit  cravats ; 
there  are  jaws  that  can’t  fill  out  collars  — (Willis 
touched  this  last  point  in  one  of  his  earlier  ambro- 
types,  if  I remember  rightly)  ; there  are  tournures 
nothing  can  humanize,  and  movements  nothing  can  sub- 
due to  the  gracious  suavity  or  elegant  languor  or  stately 
serenity  which  belong  to  different  styles  of  dandyism. 

W e are  forming  an  aristocracy,  as  you  may  observe, 
in  this  country,  — not  a gratid-Dei^  nor  ^bjure-dwino 
one, — but  a de-facto  upper  stratum  of  being,  which 
floats  over  the  turbid  waves  of  common  life  like  the  ir- 
idescent film  you  may  have  seen  spreading  over  the 
water  about  our  wharves, — very  splendid,  though  its 
origin  may  have  been  tar,  tallow,  train-oil,  or  other 
such  unctuous  commodities.  I say,  then,  we  are  form- 
ing an  aristocracy ; and,  transitory  as  its  individual 
life  often  is,  it  maintains  itself  tolerably,  as  a whole. 


260  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Of  course  money  is  its  corner-stone.  But  now  observe 
this.  Money  kept  for  two  or  three  generations  trans- 
forms a race,  — I don’t  mean  merely  in  manners  and 
hereditary  culture,  but  in  blood  and  bone.  Money 
buys  air  and  sunshine,  in  which  children  grow  up  more 
kindly,  of  course,  than  in  close,  back  streets  ; it  buys 
country  places  to  give  them  happy  and  healthy  sum- 
mers, good  nursing,  good  doctoring,  and  the  best  cuts 
of  beef  and  mutton.  When  the  spring-chickens  come 

to  market 1 beg  your  pardon,  — that  is  not  what 

was  I going  to  speak  of.  As  the  young  females  of  each 
successive  season  come  on,  the  finest  specimens  among 
them,  other  things  being  equal,  are  apt  to  attract  those 
who  can  afford  the  expensive  luxury  of  beauty.  The 
physical  character  of  the  next  generation  rises  in  con- 
sequence. It  is  plain  that  certain  families  have  in  this 
way  acquired  an  elevated  type  of  face  and  figure,  and 
that  in  a small  circle  of  city-connections  one  may  some- 
times find  models  of  both  sexes  which  one  of  the  rural 
counties  would  find  it  hard  to  match  from  all  its  town- 
ships put  together.  Because  there  is  a good  deal  of  run- 
ning down,  of  degeneration  and  waste  of  life,  among 
the  richer  classes,  you  must  not  overlook  the  equally 
obvious  fact  I have  just  spoken  of,  — which  in  one  or 
two  generations  more  will  be,  I think,  much  more  pa- 
tent than  just  now. 

The  weak  point  in  our  chryso-aristocracy  is  the  same 
I have  alluded  to  in  connection  with  cheap  dandyism. 
Its  thorough  manhood,  its  high-caste  gallantry,  are  not 
so  manifest  as  the  plate-glass  of  its  windows  and  the 
more  or  less  legitimate  heraldry  of  its  coach-panels. 
It  is  very  curious  to  observe  of  how  small  account  mil- 
itary folks  are  held  among  our  Northern  people.  Our 
young  men  must  gild  their  spurs,  but  they  need  not 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  261 

win  them.  The  equal  division  of  property  keeps  the 
younger  sons  of  rich  people  above  the  necessity  of 
military  service.  Thus  the  army  loses  an  element  of 
refinement,  and  the  moneyed  upper  class  forgets  what 
it  is  to  count  heroism  among  its  virtues.  Still  I don’t 
believe  in  any  aristocracy  without  pluck  as  its  back- 
bone. Ours  may  show  it  when  the  time  comes  if  it 
ever  does  come.® 

— These  United  States  furnish  the  greatest  market 
for  intellectual  green  fruit  of  all  the  places  in  the 
world.  I think  so,  at  any  rate.  The  demand  for  in- 
tellectual labor  is  so  enormous  and  the  market  so  far 
from  nice,  that  young  talent  is  apt  to  fare  like  un- 
ripe gooseberries,  — get  plucked  to  make  a fool  of. 
Think  of  a country  which  buys  eighty  thousand  cop- 
ies of  the  ‘‘  Proverbial  Philosophy,”  while  the  author’s 
admiring  countrymen  have  been  buying  twelve  thou- 
sand ! How  can  one  let  his  fruit  hang  in  the  sun  until 
it  gets  fully  ripe,  while  there  are  eighty  thousand  such 
hungry  mouths  ready  to  swallow  it  and  proclaim  its 
praises  ? Consequently,  there  never  was  such  a collec- 
tion of  crude  pippins  and  half -grown  windfalls  as  our 
native  literature  displays  among  its  fruits.  There  are 
literary  green-groceries  at  every  corner,  which  will  buy 
anything,  from  a button-pear  to  a pine-apple.  It  takes 
a long  apprenticeship  to  train  a whole  people  to  read- 
ing and  writing.  The  temptation  of  money  and  fame 
is  too  great  for  young  people.  Do  I not  remember  that 
glorious  moment  when  the  late  Mr. we  won’t  say 

“ The  marble  tablets  and  memorial  windows  in  our  churches 
and  monumental  buildings  bear  evidence  as  to  whether  the 
young  men  of  favored  social  position  proved  worthy  of  their 
privileges  or  not  during  the  four  years  of  trial  which  left  us  a 
nation. 


262  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


who,  — editor  of  the we  won’t  say  what,  offered 

me  the  sum  of  fifty  cents  per  double-columned  quarto 
page  for  shaking  my  young  boughs  over  his  foolscap 
apron  ? Was  it  not  an  intoxicating  vision  of  gold  and 
glory  ? I should  doubtless  have  revelled  in  its  wealth 
and  splendor,  but  for  learning  that  the  fifty  cents  was 
to  be  considered  a rhetorical  embellishment,  and  by  no 
means  a literal  expression  of  past  fact  or  present  in- 
tention. 

— Beware  of  making  your  moral  staple  consist  of 
the  negative  virtues.  It  is  good  to  abstain,  and  teach 
others  to  abstain,  from  all  that  is  sinful  or  hurtful. 
But  making  a business  of  it  leads  to  emaciation  of 
character,  unless  one  feeds  largely  also  on  the  more 
nutritious  diet  of  active  sympathetic  benevolence. 

— I don’t  believe  one  word  of  what  you  are  saying, 
— spoke  up  the  angular  female  in  black  bombazine. 

I am  sorry  you  disbelieve  it.  Madam,  — I said,  and 
added  softly  to  my  next  neighbor,  — but  you  prove 
it. 

The  young  fellow  sitting  near  me  winked  ; and  the 
divinity-student  said,  in  an  undertone,  — Optime  dic- 
tum. 

Your  talking  Latin,  — said  I, — reminds  me  of  an 
odd  trick  of  one  of  my  old  tutors.  He  read  so  much 
of  that  language,  that  his  English  half  turned  into  it. 
He  got  caught  in  town,  one  hot  summer,  in  pretty  close 
quarters,  and  wrote,  or  began  to  write,  a series  of  city 
pastorals.  Eclogues  he  called  them,  and  meant  to 
have  published  them  by  subscription.  I remember 
some  of  his  verses,  if  you  want  to  hear  them.  — Yovi, 
Sir  (addressing  myself  to  the  divinity-student),  and 
all  such  as  have  been  through  college,  or  what  is  the 
same  thing,  received  an  honorary  degree,  will  under- 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  263 

stand  them  without  a dictionary.  The  old  man  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  aestivation,”  as  he  called  it, 
in  opposition,  as  one  might  say,  to  hibernation.  In- 
tramural aestivation,  or  town-life  in  summer,  he  would 
say,  is  a peculiar  form  of  suspended  existence,  or  semi- 
asphyxia. One  wakes  up  from  it  about  the  beginning 
of  the  last  week  in  September.  This  is  what  I re- 
member of  his  poem : — 

ESTIVATION. 

An  Unpublished  Poem^  by  my  late  Latin  Tutor. 

In  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 

The  foies,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames; 

His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 

And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes. 

Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 

Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine.. 

And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine ! 

To  me,  alas!  no  verdurous  visions  come, 

Save  yon  exiguous  pooPs  conferva-scum,  — 

No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue! 

Me  wretched ! Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades  I 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids! 

Oh,  might  I vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  — 
Depart,  — be  off,  — excede,  — evade,  — erump! 

— I have  lived  by  the  sea-shore  and  by  the  moun- 
tains. — No,  I am  not  going  to  say  which  is  best. 
The  one  where  your  place  is  is  the  best  for  you.  But 
this  difference  there  is : you  can  domesticate  moun- 
tains, but  the  sea  is  ferae  naturae.  You  may  have  a 
hut,  or  know  the  owner  of  one,  on  the  mountain-side ; 


264  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

you  see  a light  half-way  up  its  ascent  in  the  evening, 
and  you  know  there  is  a home,  and  you  might  share 
it.  You  have  noted  certain  trees,  perhaps  ; you  know 
the  particular  zone  where  the  hemlocks  look  so  black 
in  October,  when  the  maples  and  beeches  have  faded. 
All  its  reliefs  and  intaglios  have  electrotyped  them- 
selves in  the  medallions  that  hang  round  the  walls  of 
your  memory’s  chamber.  — The  sea  remembers  noth- 
ing. It  is  feline.  It  licks  your  feet,  — its  huge 
flanks  purr  very  pleasantly  for  you ; but  it  will  crack 
your  bones  and  eat  you,  for  all  that,  and  wipe  the 
crimsoned  foam  from  its  jaws  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. The  mountains  give  their  lost  children  berries 
and  water ; the  sea  mocks  their  thirst  and  lets  them 
die.  The  mountains  have  a grand,  stupid,  lovable 
tranquillity ; the  sea  has  a fascinating,  treacherous  in- 
telligence. The  mountains  lie  about  like  huge  rumi- 
nants, their  broad  backs  awful  to  look  upon,  but  safe 
to  handle.  The  sea  smooths  its  silver  scales  imtil  you 
cannot  see  their  joints,  — but  their  shining  is  that  of  a 
snake’s  belly,  after  all.  — In  deeper  suggestiveness  I 
And  as  great  a difference.  The  mountains  dwarf 
mankind  and  foreshorten  the  procession  of  its  long 
generations.  The  sea  drowns  out  humanity  and  time ; 
it  has  no  S3rmpathy  with  either ; for  it  belongs  to  eter- 
nity, and  of  that  it  sings  its  monotonous  song  forever 
and  ever. 

Yet  I should  love  to  have  a little  box  by  the  sea- 
shore. I should  love  to  gaze  out  on  the  wild  feline 
element  from  a front  window  of  my  own,  just  as  I 
should  love  to  look  on  a caged  panther,  and  see  it 
stretch  its  shining  length,  and  then  curl  over  and  lap 
its  smooth  sides,  and  by-and-by  begin  to  lash  itself 
into  rage  and  show  its  white  teeth  and  spring  at  its 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE,  265 

bars,  and  howl  the  cry  of  its  mad,  but,  to  me,  harm- 
less fury.  — And  then,  — to  look  at  it  with  that  inward 
eye,  — who  does  not  love  to  shuffle  off  time  and  its 
concerns,  at  intervals,  — to  forget  who  is  President 
and  who  is  Governor,  what  race  he  belongs  to,  what 
language  he  speaks,  which  golden-headed  nail  of  the 
firmament  his  particular  planetary  system  is  hung 
upon,  and  listen  to  the  great  liquid  metronome  as  it 
beats  its  solemn  measure,  steadily  swinging  when 
the  solo  or  duet  of  human  life  began,  and  to  swing 
just  as  steadily  after  the  human  chorus  has  died  out 
and  man  is  a fossil  on  its  shores  ? 

— - What  should  decide  one,  in  choosing  a summer 
residence?  — Constitution,  first  of  all.  How  much 
snow  could  you  melt  in  an  hour,  if  you  were  planted 
in  a hogshead  of  it?  Comfort  is  essential  to  enjoy- 
ment. All  sensitive  people  should  remember  that 
persons  in  easy  circumstances  suffer  much  more  from 
cold  in  summer  — that  is,  the  warm  half  of  the  year 
— than  in  winter,  or  the  other  half.  You  must  cut 
your  climate  to  your  constitution,  as  much  as  your 
clothing  to  your  shape.  After  this,  consult  your  taste 
and  convenience.  But  if  you  would  be  happy  in 
Berkshire,  you  must  carry  mountains  in  your  brain ; 
and  if  you  would  enjoy  Nahant,  you  must  have  an 
ocean  in  your  soul.  Nature  plays  at  dominos  with 
you;  you  must  match  her  piece,  or  she  will  never  give 
it  up  to  you. 

— The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a rather  mischievous 
way,  that  she  was  afraid  some  minds  or  souls  would 
be  a little  crowded,  if  they  took  in  the  Eocky  Moun- 
tains or  the  Atlantic. 

Have  you  ever  read  the  little  book  called  ‘^The 
Stars  and  the  Earth?”  — said  I.  — Have  you  seen 


266  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  Declaration  of  Independence  photographed  in  a 
surface  that  a fly’s  foot  would  cover  ? The  forms  or 
conditions  of  Time  and  Space,  as  Kant  will  tell  you, 
are  nothing  in  themselves,  — only  our  way  of  looking 
at  things.  You  are  right,  I think,  however,  in  recog- 
nizing the  idea  of  Space  as  being  quite  as  applicable 
to  minds  as  to  the  outer  world.  Every  man  of  reflec- 
tion is  vaguely  conscious  of  an  imperfectly-defined 
circle  which  is  drawn  about  his  intellect.  He  has  a 
perfectly  clear  sense  that  the  fragments  of  his  intel- 
lectual circle  include  the  curves  of  many  other  minds 
of  which  he  is  cognizant.  He  often  recognizes  these 
as  manifestly  concentric  with  his  own,  but  of  less 
radius.  On  the  other  hand,  when  we  find  a portion 
of  an  arc  on  the  outside  of  our  own,  we  say  it  inter- 
sects ours,  but  are  very  slow  to  confess  or  to  see  that 
it  circumscribes  it.  Every  now  and  then  a man’s 
mind  is  stretched  by  a new  idea  or  sensation,  and 
never  shrinks  back  to  its  former  dimensions.  After 
looking  at  the  Alps,  I felt  that  my  mind  had  been 
stretched  beyond  the  limits  of  elasticity,  and  fitted  so 
loosely  on  my  old  ideas  of  space  that  I had  to  spread 
these  to  fit  it. 

— If  I thought  I should  ever  see  the  Alps ! — said 
the  schoolmistress. 

Perhaps  you  will,  some  time  or  other, — I said. 

It  is  not  very  likely,  — she  answered.  — I have  had 
one  or  two  opportunities,  but  I had  rather  be  any- 
thing than  governess  in  a rich  family. 

[Proud,  too,  you  little  soft- voiced  woman ! W ell, 
I can’t  say  I like  you  any  the  worse  for  it.  How 
long  will  school-keeping  take  to  kill  you  ? Is  it  pos- 
sible the  poor  thing  works  with  her  needle,  too  ? I 
don’t  like  those  marks  on  the  side  of  her  forefinger. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  267 

Tableau.  Chamouni.  Mont  Blanc  in  full  view. 
Figures  in  the  foreground ; two  of  them  standing 

apart ; one  of  them  a gentleman  of oh,  — ah,  — 

yes  ! the  other  a lady  in  a white  cashmere,  leaning 
on  his  shoulder.  — The  ingenuous  reader  will  under- 
stand that  this  was  an  internal,  private,  personal, 
subjective  diorama,  seen  for  one  instant  on  the  back- 
ground of  my  own  consciousness,  and  abolished  into 
black  nonentity  by  the  first  question  which  recalled 
me  to  actual  life,  as  suddenly  as  if  one  of  those  iron 
shop-blinds  (which  I always  pass  at  dusk  with  a 
shiver,  expecting  to  stumble  over  some  poor  but  hon- 
est shop-boy’s  head,  just  taken  off  by  its  sudden  and 
unexpected  descent,  and  left  outside  upon  the  side- 
walk) had  come  down  in  front  of  it  ‘‘by  the  run.”] 

— Should  you  like  to  hear  what  moderate  wishes 
life  brings  one  to  at  last?  I used  to  be  very  am- 
bitious,— wasteful,  extravagant,  and  luxurious  in  all 
my  fancies.  Read  too  much  in  the  “ Arabian  Nights.” 
Must  have  the  lamp,  — could  n’t  do  without  the  ring. 
Exercise  every  morning  on  the  brazen  horse.  Plump 
down  into  castles  as  full  of  little  milk-white  princesses 
as  a nest  is  of  young  sparrows.  All  love  me  dearly  at 
once.  — Charming  idea  of  life,  but  too  high-colored  for 
the  reality.  I have  out-grown  all  this ; my  tastes  have 
become  exceedingly  primitive,  — almost,  perhaps,  as- 
cetic. We  carry  happiness  into  our  condition,  but 
must  not  hope  to  find  it  there.  I think  you  will  be 
willing  to  hear  some  lines  which  embody  the  subdued 
and  limited  desires  of  my  maturity. 


268 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


CONTENTMENT. 

**  Man  wants  but  little  here  below.” 

Little  I ask ; my  wants  are  few  ; 

I only  wish  a hut  of  stone, 

(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I may  call  my  own  ; — 

And  close  at  hand  is  such  a one. 

In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ; — 

If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  Amen! 

I always  thought  cold  victual^nice ; — 

My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ; — 

Give  me  a mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock, — some  note  of  hand, 
Or  trifling  railroad  share ; — 

I only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A little  more  than  I shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I know. 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names;  ^ 

I would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James;  — 

I ^m  very  sure  I should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator’s  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles ; ’t  is  a sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things;  — 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 

A rnby  and  a pearl,  or  so. 

Will  do  for  me;  — I laugh  at  show. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  269 


My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear;)  — 

I own  perhaps  I might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I would  not  have  the  horse  I drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare: 

An  easy  gait  — two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me ; I do  not  care  ; — 

Perhaps,  for  just  a single  spurts 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four.  — 

I love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more,  — 

( A landscape,  — foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a squirt.)  — 

Of  books  but  few,  — some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ; — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco’s  gilded  gleam. 

And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  — such  things  as  these, 
Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 

1 value  for  their  power  to  please. 

And  selfish  churls  deride ; — 

One  Stradivarius,  I confess. 

Two  Meerschaums,  I would  fain  possess. 

Wealth’s  wasteful  tricks  I will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool  ; — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn. 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 


270  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas’  golden  touch, 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I shall  not  miss  them  muchy  — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content! 

MY  LAST  WALK  WITH  THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

(A  Parenthesis,') 

I can’t  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I had 
taken  together  before  this  one.  I found  the  effect  of 
going  out  every  morning  was  decidedly  favorable  on 
her  health.  Two  pleasing  dimples,  the  places  for 
which  were  just  marked  when  she  came,  played, 
shadowy,  in  her  freshening  cheeks  when  she  smiled 
and  nodded  good-morning  to  me  from  the  school- 
house-steps. 

I am  afraid  I did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking. 
At  any  rate,  if  I should  try  to  report  all  that  I said 
during  the  first  half-dozen  walks  we  took  together,  I 
fear  that  I might  receive  a gentle  hint  from  my  friends 
the  publishers,  that  a separate  volume,  at  my  own  risk 
and  expense,  would  be  the  proper  method  of  bringing 
them  before  the  public. 

— I would  have  a woman  as  true  as  Death.  At  the 
first  real  lie  which  works  from  the  heart  outward,  she 
should  be  tenderly  chloroformed  into  a better  world, 
where  she  can  have  an  angel  for  a governess,  and  feed 
on  strange  fruits  which  will  make  her  all  over  again, 
even  to  her  bones  and  marrow.  — Whether  gifted  with 
the  accident  of  beauty  or  not,  she  should  have  been 
moulded  in  the  rose-red  clay  of  Love,  before  the 
breath  of  life  made  a moving  mortal  of  her.  Love- 
capacity  is  a congenital  endowment;  and  I think, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  271 

after  a while,  one  gets  to  know  the  warm-hued  na- 
tures it  belongs  to  from  the  pretty  pipe-clay  counter- 
feits of  them.  — Proud  she  may  be,  in  the  sense  of  re- 
specting herself ; but  pride,  in  the  sense  of  contemning 
others  less  gifted  than  herself,  deserves  the  two  lowest 
circles  of  a vulgar  woman’s  Inferno,  where  the  punish- 
ments are  Smallpox  and  Bankruptcy.  — She  who  nips 
o£E  the  end  of  a brittle  courtesy,  as  one  breaks  the  tip 
of  an  icicle,  to  bestow  upon  those  whom  she  ought 
cordially  and  kindly  to  recognize,  proclaims  the  fact 
that  she  comes  not  merely  of  low  blood,  but  of  bad 
blood.  Consciousness  of  unquestioned  position  makes 
people  gracious  in  proper  measure  to  all ; but  if  a 
woman  put  on  airs  with  her  real  equals,  she  has  some- 
thing about  herself  or  her  family  she  is  ashamed  of,  or 
ought  to  be.  Middle,  and  more  than  middle-aged  peo- 
ple, who  know  family  histories,  generally  see  through 
it.  An  official  of  standing  was  rude  to  me  once.  Oh, 
that  is  the  maternal  grandfather,  — said  a wise  old 
friend  to  me,  — he  was  a boor.  — Better  too  few 
words,  from  the  woman  we  love,  than  too  many : while 
she  is  silent.  Nature  is  working  for  her;  while  she 
talks,  she  is  working  for  herself.  — Love  is  sparingly 
soluble  in  the  words  of  men ; therefore  they  speak 
much  of  it;  but  one  syllable  of  woman’s  speech  can 
dissolve  more  of  it  than  a man’s  heart  can  hold. 

« — Whether  I said  any  or  all  of  these  things  to  the 
schoolmistress,  or  not,  — whether  I stole  them  out  of 
Lord  Bacon,  — whether  I cribbed  them  from  Balzac, 

■ — whether  I dipped  them  from  the  ocean  of  Tupperian 
wisdom,  — or  whether  I have  just  found  them  in  my 
head,  laid  there  by  that  solemn  fowl.  Experience 
(who,  according  to  my  observation,  cackles  oftener 
than  she  drops  real  live  eggs),  I cannot  say.  Wise 


272  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

men  have  said  more  foolish  things,  — and  foolish  men, 
I don’t  doubt,  have  said  as  wise  things.  Anyhow,  the 
schoolmistress  and  I had  pleasant  walks  and  long 
talks,  all  of  which  I do  not  feel  bound  to  report. 

— You  are  a stranger  to  me.  Ma’am.  — I don’t 
doubt  you  would  like  to  know  all  I said  to  the  school- 
mistress. — I sha’n’t  do  it ; — I had  rather  get  the  pub- 
lishers to  return  the  money  you  have  invested  in  these 
pages.  Besides,  I have  forgotten  a good  deal  of  it.  I 
shall  tell  only  what  I like  of  what  I remember. 

— My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out  the 
picturesque  spots  which  the  city  affords  a sight  of,  to 
those  who  have  eyes.  I know  a good  many,  and  it 
was  a pleasure  to  look  at  them  in  company  with  my 
young  friend.  There  were  the  shrubs  and  flowers  in 
the  Franklin-Place  front-yards  or  borders:  Commerce 
is  just  putting  his  granite  foot  upon  them.  Then  there 
are  certain  small  seraglio-gardens,  into  which  one  can 
get  a peep  through  the  crevices  of  high  fences,  — one 
in  Myrtle  Street,  or  at  the  back  of  it,  — here  and 
there  one  at  the  North  and  South  ends.  Then  the 
great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then  the  stately  horse- 
chestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers  Street,  which 
hold  their  outspread  hands  over  your  head  (as  I said 
in  my  poem  the  other  day),  and  look  as  if  they  were 
whispering,  May  grace,  mercy,  and  peace  be  with 
you!  ” ^ — and  the  rest  of  that  benediction.  Nay,  there 
are  certain  patches  of  ground,  which,  having  lain  neg- 
lected for  a time.  Nature,  who  always  has  her  pockets 
full  of  seeds,  and  holes  in  all  her  pockets,  has  covered 
with  hungry  plebeian  growths,  which  fight  for  life  with 
each  other,  until  some  of  them  get  broad-leaved  and 
succulent,  and  you  have  a coarse  vegetable  tapestry 
which  Raphael  woidd  not  have  disdained  to  spread 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  273 


over  the  foreground  of  his  masterpiece.  The  Professor 
pretends  that  he  found  such  a one  in  Charles  Street, 
which,  in  its  dare-devil  impudence  of  rough-and-tumble 
vegetation,  beat  the  pretty-behaved  flower-beds  of  the 
Public  Garden  as  ignominiously  as  a group  of  young 
tatterdemalions  playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a row  of 
Sunday-school-boys  with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  the  Professor  has  one  of  his  burrows  in 
that  region,  and  puts  everything  in  high  colors  relat- 
ing to  it.  That  is  his  way  about  everything.  — I 
hold  any  man  cheap,  — he  said,  — of  whom  nothing 
stronger  can  be  uttered  than  that  all  his  geese  are 
swans.  — How  is  that.  Professor  ? — said  I ; — I 
should  have  set  you  down  for  one  of  that  sort.  — Sir, 

— said  he,  — I am  proud  to  say,  that  Nature  has  so 
far  enriched  me,  that  I cannot  own  so  much  as  a duck 
without  seeing  in  it  as  pretty  a swan  as  ever  swam  the 
basin  in  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg.  And  the 
Professor  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly,  like 
one  returning  thanks  after  a dinner  of  many  courses. 

I don’t  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking  in 
of  Nature  through  all  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and 
floors  of  cities.  You  heap  up  a million  tons  of  hewn 
rocks  on  a square  mile  or  two  of  earth  which  was 
green  once.  The  trees  look  down  from  the  hill-sides 
and  ask  each  other,  as  they  stand  on  tiptoe,  — ‘‘  What 
are  these  people  about  ? ” And  the  small  herbs  at 
their  feet  look  up  and  whisper  back,  — ‘‘We  will  go 
and  see.”  So  the  small  herbs  pack  themselves  up  in 
the  least  possible  bundles,  and  wait  until  the  wind 
steals  to  them  at  night  and  whispers,  — “ Come  with 
me.”  Then  they  go  softly  with  it  into  the  great  city, 

— one  to  a cleft  in  the  pavement,  one  to  a spout  on  the 
roof,  one  to  a seam  in  the  marbles  over  a rich  gentle- 

18 


274  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

man’s  bones,  and  one  to  the  grave  without  a stone 
where  nothing  but  a man  is  buried,  — and  there  they 
grow,  looking  down  on  the  generations  of  men  from 
mouldy  roofs,  looking  up  from  between  the  less-trod- 
den pavements,  looking  out  through  iron  cemetery- 
railings.  Listen  to  them,  when  there  is  only  a light 
breath  stirring,  and  you  will  hear  them  saying  to  each 
other,  — ‘‘Wait  awhile ! ” The  words  run  along  the 
telegraph  of  those  narrow  green  lines  that  border  the 
roads  leading  from  the  city,  until  they  reach  the  slope 
of  the  hills,  and  the  trees  repeat  in  low  murmurs  to 
each  other,  — “Wait  awhile!”  By-and-by  the  flow 
of  life  in  the  streets  ebbs,  and  the  old  leafy  inhabit- 
ants — the  smaller  tribes  always  in  front  — saunter 
in,  one  by  one,  very  careless  seemingly,  but  very  tena- 
cious, until  they  swarm  so  that  the  great  stones  gape 
from  each  other  with  the  crowding  of  their  roots,  and 
the  feldspar  begins  to  be  picked  out  of  the  granite  to 
find  them  food.  At  last  the  trees  take  up  their  solemn 
line  of  march,  and  never  rest  until  they  have  en- 
camped in  the  market-place.  Wait  long  enough  and 
you  will  find  an  old  doting  oak  hugging  a huge  worn 
block  in  its  yellow  underground  arms  ; that  was  the 
corner-stone  of  the  State-House.  Oh,  so  patient  she  is, 
this  imperturbable  Nature  I 

— Let  us  cry  I — 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks  and 
talks  with  the  schoolmistress.  I did  not  say  that  I 
would  not  tell  you  something  about  them.  Let  me 
alone,  and  I shall  talk  to  you  more  than  I ought  to, 
probably.  We  never  tell  our  secrets  to  people  that 
pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  education.  It  was  her 
duty  to  know  something  of  these,  and  of  course  she 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  275 


did.  Perhaps  I was  somewhat  more  learned  than  she, 
but  I found  that  the  difference  between  her  reading 
and  mine  was  like  that  of  a man’s  and  a woman’s 
dusting  a library.  The  man  flaps  about  with  a bunch 
of  feathers  ; the  woman  goes  to  work  softly  with  a 
cloth.  She  does  not  raise  half  the  dust,  nor  fill  her 
own  eyes  and  mouth  with  it,  — but  she  goes  into  all 
the  corners  and  attends  to  the  leaves  as  much  as  to  the 
covers.  — Books  are  the  negative  pictures  of  thought, 
and  the  more  sensitive  the  mind  that  receives  their 
images,  the  more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are  reproduced. 
A woman  (of  the  right  kind),  reading  after  a man, 
follows  him  as  Ruth  followed  the  reapers  of  Boaz,  and 
her  gleanings  are  often  the  finest  of  the  wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  Life  that  we  came  most 
nearly  together.  I thought  I knew  something  about 
that,  — that  I could  speak  or  write  about  it  somewhat 
to  the  purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a 
sponge  sucks  up  water,  — to  be  steeped  and  soaked  in 
its  realities  as  a hide  fills  its  pores  lying  seven  years 
in  a tan-pit,  — to  have  winnowed  every  wave  of  it  as  a 
mill-wheel  works  up  the  stream  that  runs  through  the 
flume  upon  its  float-boards,  — to  have  curled  up  in  the 
keenest  spasms  and  flattened  out  in  the  laxest  languors 
of  this  breathing-sickness,  which  keeps  certain  parcels 
of  matter  uneasy  for  three  or  four  score  years,  — to 
have  fought  all  the  devils  and  clasped  all  the  angels 
of  its  delirium,  — and  then,  just  at  the  point  when  the 
white-hot  passions  have  cooled  down  to  cherry-red, 
plunge  our  experience  into  the  ice-cold  stream  of  some 
human  language  or  other,  one  might  think  would  end 
in  a rhapsody  with  something  of  spring  and  temper  in 
it.  All  this  I thought  my  power  and  province. 


276  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life,  too.  Once  in  a 
while  one  meets  with  a single  soul  greater  than  all  the 
living  pageant  which  passes  before  it.  As  the  pale 
astronomer  sits  in  his  study  with  sunken  eyes  and  thin 
fingers,  and  weighs  Uranus  or  Neptune  as  in  a bal- 
ance, so  there  are  meek,  slight  women  who  have 
weighed  all  which  this  planetary  life  can  offer,  and 
hold  it  like  a bauble  in  the  palm  of  their  slender 
hands.  This  was  one  of  them.  Fortune  had  left  her, 
sorrow  had  baptized  her  ; the  routine  of  labor  and  the 
loneliness  of  almost  friendless  city-life  were  before 
her.  Yet,  as  I looked  upon  her  tranquil  face,  gradu- 
ally regaining  a cheerfulness  which  was  often  sprightly, 
as  she  became  interested  in  the  various  matters  we 
talked  about  and  places  we  visited,  I saw  that  eye  and 
lip  and  every  shifting  lineament  were  made  for  love, 
— unconscious  of  their  sweet  office  as  yet,  and  meet- 
ing the  cold  aspect  of  Duty  with  the  natural  graces 
which  were  meant  for  the  reward  of  nothing  less  than 
the  Great  Passion. 

— I never  addressed  one  word  of  love  to  the  school- 
mistress in  the  course  of  these  pleasant  walks.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  we  talked  of  everything  but  love  on 
that  particular  morning.  There  was,  perhaps,  a little 
more  timidity  and  hesitancy  on  my  part  than  I have 
commonly  shown  among  our  people  at  the  boarding- 
house. In  fact,  I considered  myself  the  master  at  the 
breakfast-table ; but,  somehow,  I could  not  command 
myself  just  then  so  well  as  usual.  The  truth  is,  I had 
secured  a passage  to  Liverpool  in  the  steamer  which 
was  to  leave  at  noon,  — with  the  condition,  however, 
of  being  released  in  case  circumstances  occurred  to 
detain  me.  The  schoolmistress  knew  nothing  about 
all  this,  of  course,  as  yet. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  277 


It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The 
mall^  or  boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know,  has  va- 
rious branches  leading  from  it  in  different  directions. 
One  of  these  runs  down  from  opposite  Joy  Street 
southward  across  the  whole  length  of  the  Common  to 
Boylston  Street.  We  called  it  the  long  path,  and 
were  fond  of  it. 

I felt  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a tolerably 
robust  habit)  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this 
path  on  that  morning.  I think  I tried  to  speak  twice 
without  making  myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I 
got  out  the  question,  — Will  you  take  the  long  path 
with  me  ? — Certainly,  — said  the  schoolmistress,  — 
with  much  pleasure.  — Think,  — I said,  — before  you 
answer:  if  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  now,  I 
shall  interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part  no  more  ! — The 
schoolmistress  stepped  back  with  a sudden  movement, 
as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was 
hard  by,  — the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the 
Gingko-tree.  — Pray,  sit  down,  — I said.  — No,  no, 
she  answered,  softly,  — I will  walk  the  long  path  with 
you ! 

— The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met  us 
walking,  arm  in  arm,  about  the  middle  of  the  long 
path,  and  said,  very  charmingly,  — ‘‘  Good-morning, 
my  dears ! ’’ 


XII. 

[I  DID  not  think  it  probable  that  I should  have  a 
great  many  more  talks  with  our  company,  and  there- 
fore I was  anxious  to  get  as  much  as  I could  into 


278  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

every  conversation.  That  is  the  reason  why  you  will 
find  some  odd,  miscellaneous  facts  here,  which  I 
wished  to  tell  at  least  once,  as  I should  not  have  a 
chance  to  tell  them  habitually,  at  our  breakfast-table. 

— We  ’re  very  free  and  easy,  you  know ; we  don’t 
read  what  we  don’t  like.  Our  parish  is  so  large,  one 
can’t  pretend  to  preach  to  all  the  pews  at  once.  One 
can’t  be  all  the  time  trying  to  do  the  best  of  one’s 
best ; if  a company  works  a steam  fire-engine,  the  fire- 
men need  n’t  be  straining  themselves  all  day  to  squirt 
over  the  top  of  the  flagstaff.  Let  them  wash  some  of 
those  lower-story  windows  a little.  Besides,  there  is 
no  use  in  our  quarrelling  now,  as  you  will  find  out 
when  you  get  through  this  paper.] 

— Travel,  according  to  my  experience,  does  not  ex- 
actly correspond  to  the  idea  one  gets  of  it  out  of  most 
books  of  travels.  I am  thinking  of  travel  as  it  was 
when  I made  the  Grand  Tour,  especially  in  Italy. 
Memory  is  a net;  one  finds  it  full  of  fish  when  he 
takes  it  from  the  brook ; but  a dozen  miles  of  water 
have  run  through  it  without  sticking.  I can  prove 
some  facts  about  travelling  by  a story  or  two.  There 
are  certain  principles  to  be  assumed,  — such  as  these : 

— He  who  is  carried  by  horses  must  deal  with  rogues. 

< — To-day’s  dinner  subtends  a larger  visual  angle  than 
yesterday’s  revolution.  A mote  in  my  eye  is  bigger 
to  me  than  the  biggest  of  Dr.  Gould’s  private  planets. 

— Every  traveller  is  a self-taught  entomologist.  — 
Old  jokes  are  dynamometers  of  mental  tension;  an 
old  joke  tells  better  among  friends  travelling  than  at 
home,  — which  shows  that  their  minds  are  in  a state 
of  diminished,  rather  than  increased,  vitality.  There 
was  a story  about  strahps  to  your  pahnts,”  which 
was  vastly  funny  to  us  fellows,  — on  the  road  from 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  279 

Milan  to  Venice.  — Coelum^  non  animum^  — travellers 
change  their  guineas,  but  not  their  characters.  The 
bore  is  the  same,  eating  dates  under  the  cedars  o£ 
Lebanon,  as  over  a plate  of  baked  beans  in  Beacon 
Street.  — Parties  of  travellers  have  a morbid  instinct 
for  ‘‘establishing  raws”  upon  each  other.  — A man 
shall  sit  down  with  his  friend  at  the  foot  of  the  Great 
Pyramid  and  they  will  take  up  the  question  they  had 
been  talking  about  under  “the  great  elm,”  and  forget 
all  about  Egypt.  When  I was  crossing  the  Po,  we 
were  all  fighting  about  the  propriety  of  one  fellow’s 
telling  another  that  his  argument  was  absurd ; one 
maintaining  it  to  be  a perfectly  admissible  logical 
term,  as  proved  by  the  phrase  “reductio  ad  absur- 
dum ; ” the  rest  badgering  him  as  a conversational 
bully.  Mighty  little  we  troubled  ourselves  for  Padus^ 
the  Po,  “a  river  broader  and  more  rapid  than  the 
Rhone,”  and  the  times  when  Hannibal  led  his  grim 
Africans  to  its  banks,  and  his  elephants  thrust  their 
trunks  into  the  yellow  waters  over  which  that  pendu- 
lum ferry-boat  was  swinging  back  and  forward  every 
ten  minutes ! 

— Here  are  some  of  those  reminiscences,  with  mor- 
als prefixed,  or  annexed,  or  implied. 

Lively  emotions  very  commonly  do  not  strike  us 
full  in  front,  but  obliquely  from  the  side ; a scene  or 
incident  in  undress  often  affects  us  more  than  one  in 
full  costume. 

“ Is  this  the  mighty  ocean?  — Is  this  all 

says  the  Princess  in  Gebir.  The  rush  that  should 
have  flooded  my  soul  in  the  Coliseum  did  not  come. 
But  walking  one  day  in  the  fields  about  the  city,  I 
stumbled  over  a fragment  of  broken  masonry,  and  lo ! 


280  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

the  World’s  Mistress  in  her  stone  girdle  — alta  moenia 
Romce  — rose  before  me  and  whitened  my  cheek  with 
her  pale  shadow  as  never  before  or  since. 

I used  very  often,  when  coming  home  from  my 
morning’s  work  at  one  of  the  public  institutions  of 
Paris,  to  stop  in  at  the  dear  old  church  of  St.  Eti- 
enne du  Mont.  The  toinb  of  St,  Genevieve,  sur- 
rounded by  burning  candles  and  votive  tablets,  was 
there;  the  mural  tablet  of  Jacobus  Benignus  Wins- 
low was  there ; there  was  a noble  organ  with  carved 
figures ; the  pulpit  was  borne  on  the  oaken  shoulders 
of  a stooping  Samson;  and  there  was  a marvellous 
staircase  like  a coil  of  lace.  These  things  I mention 
from  memory,  but  not  all  of  them  together  impressed 
me  so  much  as  an  inscription  on  a small  slab  of  mar- 
ble fixed  in  one  of  the  walls.  It  told  how  this  church 
of  St,  Stephen  was  repaired  and  beautified  in  the 
year  16*^,  and  how,  during  the  celebration  of  its  re- 
opening, two  girls  of  the  parish  ( lilies  de  la  paroisse') 
fell  from  the  gallery,  carrying  a part  of  the  balustrade 
with  them,  to  the  pavement,  but  by  a miracle  escaped 
uninjured.  Two  young  girls  nameless,  but  real  pres- 
ences to  my  imagination,  as  much  as  when  they  came 
fluttering  down  on  the  tiles  with  a cry  that  outscreamed 
the  sharpest  treble  in  the  Te  Deum.  (Look  at  Car- 
lyle’s article  on  Boswell,  and  see  how  he  speaks  of  the 
poor  young  woman  J ohnson  talked  with  in  the  streets 
one  evening.)  All  the  crowd  gone  but  these  two 
filles  de  la  paroisse,” — gone  as  utterly  as  the  dresses 
they  wore,  as  the  shoes  that  were  on  their  feet,  as  the 
bread  and  meat  that  were  in  the  market  on  that  day. 

Not  the  great  historical  events,  but  the  personal  in- 
cidents which  call  up  single  sharp  pictures  of  some  hu- 
man being  in  its  pang  or  struggle,  reach  us  most 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  281 

nearly.  I remember  the  platform  at  Berne,  over  the 
parapet  of  which  Theobald  Weinzapfli’s  restive  horse 
sprung  with  him  and  landed  him  more  than  a hun- 
dred feet  beneath  in  the  lower  town,  not  dead,  but 
sorely  broken,  and  no  longer  a wild  youth,  but  God’s 
servant  from  that  day  forward.  I have  forgotten  the 
famous  bears,  and  all  else.  — I remember  the  Percy 
lion  on  the  bridge  over  the  little  river  at  Alnwick,  — 
the  leaden  lion  with  his  tail  stretched  out  straight  like 
a pump-handle,  — and  why  ? Because  of  the  story  of 
the  village  boy  who  must  fain  bestride  the  leaden  tail, 
standing  out  over  the  water,  — which  breaking,  he 
dropped  into  the  stream  far  below,  and  was  taken  out 
an  idiot  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Arrow-heads  must  be  brought  to  a sharp  point  and 
the  guillotine-axe  must  have  a slanting  edge.  Some- 
thing intensely  human,  narrow,  and  definite  pierces  to 
the  seat  of  our  sensibilities  more  readily  than  huge 
occurrences  and  catastrophes.  A nail  will  pick  a lock 
that  defies  hatchet  and  hammer.  “ The  Royal  George  ” 
went  down  with  all  her  crew,  and  Cow^per  wrote  an 
exquisitely  simple  poem  about  it ; but  the  leaf  which 
holds  it  is  smooth,  while  that  which  bears  the  lines  on 
his  mother’s  portrait  is  blistered  with  tears. 

My  telling  these  recollections  sets  me  thinking  of 
others  of  the  same  kind  which  strike  the  imagination, 
especially  when  one  is  still  young.  You  remember 
the  monument  in  Devizes  market  to  the  woman  struck 
dead  with  a lie  in  her  mouth.  I never  saw  that,  but 
it  is  in  the  books.  Here  is  one  I never  heard  men- 
tioned ; — if  any  of  the  “ Note  and  Query  ” tribe  can 
tell  the  story,  I hope  they  will.  Where  is  this  monu- 
ment ? I was  riding  on  an  English  stage-coach  when 
we  passed  a handsome  marble  column  (as  I remember 


282  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


it)  of  considerable  size  and  pretensions. — What  is 
that  ? — I said.  — That,  — answered  the  coachman,  — 
is  the  hangmavb  s 'pillar.^  Then  he  told  me  how  a 

" It  would  have  been  well  if  I had  consulted  Notes  and 
Queries  before  telling  this  story.  A year  or  two  before  the 
time  when  I was  writing,  a number  of  communications  relating 
to  the  subject  were  sent  to  that  periodical-  A correspondent 
called  my  attention  to  them,  and  other  correspondents,  — Miss 
H.  P.,of  London,  the  librarian  of  a public  institution  at  Dub- 
lin, a young  gentleman,  writing  from  Cornwall,  and  others, 
whose  residences  I do  not  now  remember,  wrote  to  me,  men- 
tioning stories  like  that  which  the  coachman  told  me.  The  self- 
reproduction of  the  legend  wherever  there  was  a stone  to  hang 
it  on,  seems  to  me  so  interesting,  as  bearing  on  the  philosophy 
of  tradition,  that  I subjoin  a number  of  instances  from  Notes 
and  Queries, 

In  the  first  the  thief’s  booty  was  a deer  and  not  a sheep,  as 
the  common  account  made  it.  The  incident  not  only  involved 
a more  distinguished  quadruped,  but  also  was  found  worthy  of 
being  commemorated  in  rhyme. 

N.  ^ Q.  for  January  5,  1856. 

“ In  Potter’s  Churnwood^  p.  179,  a ‘ Legend  of  the  Hangman’s 
Stone,’  in  verse,  is  given,  in  which  the  death  of  John  of  Oxley 
is  described. 


‘ One  shaft  he  drew  on  his  well-tried  yew, 

And  a gallant  hart  lay  dead ; 

He  tied  its  legs,  and  he  hoisted  his  prize, 

And  he  toiled  over  Lubcloud  brow. 

He  reached  the  tall  stone,  standing  out  and  alone, 
Standing  then  as  it  standeth  now; 

With  his  back  to  the  stone  he  rested  his  load, 
And  he  chuckled  with  glee  to  think 
That  the  rest  of  his  way  on  the  down  hill  lay 
And  his  wife  would  have  spiced  the  strong  drink. 


A swineherd  was  passing  o’er  great  Toe’s  Head, 

When  he  noticed  a motionless  man ; 

He  shouted  in  vain  — no  reply  could  he  gain  — 

So  down  to  the  gray  stone  he  ran. 

All  was  clear.  There  was  Oxley  on  one  side  the  stone, 
On  the  other*the  down-hanging  deer; 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  283 

man  went  out  one  night,  many  years  ago,  to  steal 
sheep.  He  caught  one,  tied  its  legs  together,  passed 
the  rope  over  his  head,  and  started  for  home.  In 

The  burden  had  slipped,  and  his  neck  it  had  nipped ; 

He  was  hanged  by  his  prize  — all  was  clear.’ 

“‘When  I was  a youth,’  the  same  writer  continues,  ‘there 
were  two  fields  in  the  parish  of  Foremark,  Derbyshire,  called 
the  Great  and  the  Little  Hangman’s  Stone.  In  the  former 
there  was  a stone,  five  or  six  feet  high,  with  an  indentation 
running  across  the  top  of  it,  and  there  was  a legend  that  a 
sheep-stealer,  once  upon  a time  having  stolen  a sheep,  had 
placed  it  on  the  top  of  the  stone,  and  that  it  had  slipped  off  and 
strangled  him  with  the  rope  with  which  it  was  tied,  and  that 
the  indentation  was  made  by  the  friction  of  the  rope  caused  by 
the  struggles  of  the  dying  man.’  — C.  S.  Greaves.” 

iV.  # a,  April  5,  1856. 

Similar  Legends  at  Different  Places.  — “ At  the  end 
of  Lamber  Moor,  on  the  roadside  between  Haverford  West  and 
Little  Haven,  in  the  County  of  Pembroke,  there  is  a stone  about 
four  feet  high,  called  ‘Hang  Davy  Stone,’  connected  with  which 
is  a tradition  of  the  accidental  strangling  of  a sheep-stealer,  sim- 
ilar to  the  legend  mentioned  by  Mr.  Greaves  with  reference  to 
the  stone  at  Foremark.  — J.  W.  Phillips.” 

iV.  # Q.,  May  17,  1856. 

“ The  Hangman  Stone.  — It  may  be  interesting  to  your 
correspondent,  Mr.  J.  W.  Phillips,  to  be  informed  that  at  about 
five  miles  from  Sidmouth,  on  the  road  to  Colyton,  on  the  right 
hand  side  of  the  road,  and  near  Bovey  House,  is  a large  stone 
known  by  the  name  of  ‘ Hangman  Stone.’  The  legend  is  pre- 
cisely similar  to  that  noticed  by  Mr.  Phillips  and  by  Mr. 
Greaves.  — N.  S.  Heineker.” 

N.  # 31,  1856. 

“ Hangman  Stones.  — Some  years  ago  there  was  still  to  be 
seen,  in  a meadow  belonging  to  me,  situate  near  the  northwest- 
ern boundary  of  the  parish  of  Littlebury,  in  Essex,  a large 
stone,  the  name  of  which,  and  the  traditions  attached  to  it,  were 
identical  with  those  recorded  by  your  correspondents  treating 


284  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


climbing  a fence,  the  rope  slipped,  caught  him  by  the 
neck,  and  strangled  him.  Next  morning  he  was  found 
hanging  dead  on  one  side  of  the  fence  and  the  sheep 
on  the  other ; in  memory  whereof  the  lord  of  the 
manor  caused  this  monument  to  be  erected  as  a warn- 
ing to  all  who  love  mutton  better  than  virtue.  I will 

of  Hangman  Stones.  This  stone  was  subsequently  removed  by 
the  late  Mr.  Jabez  Gibson  to  Saffron  Walden,  and  still  remains 
in  his  garden  at  that  place.  I have  a strong  impression  that 
other  ‘ hangman  stones  ’ are  to  be  met  with  elsewhere,  but  I am 
unable  to  point  out  the  exact  localities.  — Braybrooke.^’ 

“ On  the  right  side  of  the  road  between  Brighton  and  New- 
haven  (about  five  miles,  I think,  from  the  former  place),  is  a 
stone  designated  as  above,  and  respecting  which  is  told  the 
same  legend  as  that  which  is  quoted  by  Henry  Kensington.  — 
H.  E.  C.’» 

N.  ^ Q.,  June  21,  1856. 

Hangman  Stones.  — At  a picturesque  angle  in  the  road 
between  Sheffield  and  Barnsley,  and  about  three  miles  south  of 
the  latter  place,  there  is  a toll-bar  called  ‘ Hangman  Stone  Bar.’ 
Attached  to  this  title  is  the  usual  legend  of  a sheep-stealer  being 
strangled  by  the  kicking  animal,  which  he  had  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  and  which  pulled  him  backwards  as  he  tried  to  climb 
over  the  stone  wall  inclosure  with  his  spoil.  I do  not  know  that 
any  particular  stone  is  marked  as  the  one  on  which  the  sheep 
was  rested  for  the  convenience  of  the  thief  in  trying  to  make  his 
escape,  but  the  Jehu  of  the  now  extinct  Barnsley  mail  always 
told  this  story  to  any  inquiring  passenger  who  happened  to  be 
one  of  five  at  top,  — as  quaint  a four-in-hand  as  you  shall  see. 
— Alfred  Gatty.” 

I have  little  doubt  that  the  story  told  by  the  ‘‘Jehu,”  which 
my  memory  may  have  embellished  a little,  as  is  not  unusual 
with  travellers’  recollections,  was  the  one  to  which  I listened  as 
one  of  the  five  outsides,  and  in  answer  to  my  question.  The 
country  boys  used  to  insist  upon  it  in  my  young  days  that  stones 
grew.  It  seems  to  me  probable  that  a very  moderate  monolith 
may  have  grown  in  my  recollection  to  “ a handsome  marble  col- 
umn,” and  that  “the  lord  of  the  manor”  was  my  own  phrase 
rather  than  our  coachman’s. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  285 

send  a copy  of  this  record  to  him  or  her  who  shall  first 
set  me  right  about  this  column  and  its  locality." 

And  telling  over  these  old  stories  reminds  me  that 
I have  something  which  may  interest  architects  and 
perhaps  some  other  persons.  I once  ascended  the 
spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral,  which  is  the  highest,  I 
think  (at  present),  in  Europe.  It  is  a shaft  of  stone 
filigree-work,  frightfully  open,  so  that  the  guide  puts 
his  arms  behind  you  to  keep  you  from  falling.  To 
climb  it  is  a noonday  nightmare,  and  to  think  of  hav- 
ing climbed  it  crisps  all  the  fifty-six  joints  of  one’s 
twenty  digits.  While  I was  on  it,  ‘‘  pinnacled  dim  in 
the  intense  inane,”  a strong  wind  was  blowing,  and  I 
felt  sure  that  the  spire  was  rocking.  It  swayed  back 
and  forward  like  a stalk  of  rye  or  a cat-o’-nine-tails 
(bulrush)  with  a bobolink  on  it.  I mentioned  it  to 
the  guide,  and  he  said  that  the  spire  did  really  swing 
back  and  forward,  — I think  he  said  some  feet. 

Keep  any  line  of  knowledge  ten  years  and  some 
other  line  will  intersect  it.  Long  afterwards  I was 
hunting  out  a paper  of  Dumeril’s  in  an  old  journal,  — 
the  ‘‘  Magazin  Encyclopedique  ” for  Van  troisieme 
(1795),  when  I stumbled  upon  a brief  article  on  the 
vibrations  of  the  spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral.  A 
man  can  shake  it  so  that  the  movement  shall  be  shown 
in  a vessel  of  water  nearly  seventy  feet  below  the  sum- 
mit, and  higher  up  the  vibration  is  like  that  of  an 
earthquake.  I have  seen  one  of  those  wretched 
wooden  spires  with  which  we  very  shabbily  finish 
some  of  our  stone  churches  (thinking  that  the  lidless 
blue  eye  of  heaven  cannot  tell  the  counterfeit  we  try 
to  pass  on  it,)  swinging  like  a reed,  in  a wind,  but  one 
would  hardly  think  of  such  a thing’s  happening  in  a 
® I sent  two  or  three  copies  to  different  correspondents. 


286  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

stone  spire.  Does  the  Bunker-Hill  Monument  bend  in 
the  blast  like  a blade  of  grass  ? I suppose  so. 

You  see,  of  course,  that  I am  talking  in  a cheap 
way  ; — perhaps  we  will  have  some  philosophy  by  and 
by ; — let  me  work  out  this  thin  mechanical  vein.  — 
I have  something  more  to  say  about  trees.  I have 
brought  down  this  slice  of  hemlock  to  show  you.  Tree 
blew  down  in  my  woods  (that  were)  in  1852.  Twelve 
feet  and  a half  round,  fair  girth  ; — nine  feet,  where 
I got  my  section,  higher  up.  This  is  a wedge,  go- 
ing to  the  centre,  of  the  general  shape  of  a slice  of 
apple-pie  in  a large  and  not  opulent  family.  Length, 
about  eighteen  inches.  I have  studied  the  growth 
of  this  tree  by  its  rings,  and  it  is  curious.  Three 
hundred  and  forty-two  rings.  Started,  therefore, 
about  1510.  The  thickness  of  the  rings  tells  the 
rate  at  which  it  grew.  For  five  or  six  years  the  rate 
was  slow,  — then  rapid  for  twenty  years.  A little  be- 
fore the  year  1550  it  began  to  grow  very  slowly,  and 
so  continued  for  about  seventy  years.  In  1620  it  took 
a new  start  and  grew  fast  until  1714,  then  for  the 
most  part  slowly  until  1786,  when  it  started  again  and 
grew  pretty  well  and  uniformly  until  within  the  last 
dozen  years,  when  it  seems  to  have  got  on  sluggishly. 

Look  here.  Here  are  some  human  lives  laid  down 
against  the  periods  of  its  growth,  to  which  they  cor- 
responded. This  is  Shakspeare’s.  The  tree  was  seven 
inches  in  diameter  when  he  was  born ; ten  inches 
when  he  died.  A little  less  than  ten  inches  when 
Milton  was  born ; seventeen  when  he  died.  Then 
comes  a long  interval,  and  this  thread  marks  out 
J ohnson’s  life,  during  which  the  tree  increased  from 
twenty-two  to  twenty-nine  inches  in  diameter.  Here 
is  the  span  of  Napoleon’s  career ; — the  tree  does  n’t 
seem  to  have  minded  it. 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  287 

I never  saw  the  man  yet  who  was  not  startled  at 
looking  on  this  section.  I have  seen  many  wooden 
preachers,  — never  one  like  this.  How  much  more 
striking  would  be  the  calendar  counted  on  the  rings 
of  one  of  those  awful  trees  which  were  standing  when 
Christ  was  on  earth,  and  where  that  brief  mortal  life 
is  chronicled  with  the  stolid  apathy  of  vegetable  be- 
ing, which  remembers  all  human  history  as  a thing  of 
yesterday  in  its  own  dateless  existence ! 

I have  something  more  to  say  about  elms.  A rela- 
tive tells  me  there  is  one  of  great  glory  in  Andover, 
near  Bradford.  I have  some  recollections  of  the  former 
place,  pleasant  and  other.  [I  wonder  if  the  old  Semi- 
nary clock  strikes  as  slowly  as  it  used  to.  My  room- 
mate thought,  when  he  first  came,  it  was  the  bell  toll- 
ing deaths,  and  people’s  ages,  as  they  do  in  the  coun- 
try. He  swore  — (ministers’  sons  get  so  familiar 
with  good  words  that  they  are  apt  to  handle  them 
carelessly)  — that  the  children  were  dying  by  the 
dozen,  of  all  ages,  from  one  to  twelve,  and  ran  off  next 
day  in  recess,  when  it  began  to  strike  eleven,  but  was 
caught  before  the  clock  got  through  striking.]  At 
the  foot  of  “ the  hill,”  down  in  town,  is,  or  was,  a tidy 
old  elm,  which  was  said  to  have  been  hooped  with  iron 
to  protect  it  from  Indian  tomahawks  ( Credat  Hahne- 
mannus^^  and  to  have  grown  round  its  hoops  and 
buried  them  in  its  wood.  Of  course,  this  is  not  the 
tree  my  relative  means. 

Also,  I have  a very  pretty  letter  from  Norwich,  in 
Connecticut,  telling  me  of  two  noble  elms  which  are 
to  be  seen  in  the  town.  One  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven  feet  from  bough-end  to  bough-end.  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ? And  gentle  ladies  beneath  it,  that 
love  it  and  celebrate  its  praises  ! And  that  in  a town 


288  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


of  such  supreme,  audacious,  Alpine  loveliness  as  Nor- 
wich ! — Only  the  dear  people  there  must  learn  to  call 
it  Norridge,  and  not  be  misled  by  the  mere  accident 
of  spelling. 

Norwich. 

PorcAmouth. 

Cincinnata^. 

What  a sad  picture  of  our  civilization  ! 

I did  not  speak  to  you  of  the  great  tree  on  what 
used  to  be  the  Colman  farm,  in  Deerfield,  simply  be- 
cause I had  not  seen  it  for  many  years,  and  did  not 
like  to  trust  my  recollection.  But  I had  it  in  memory, 
and  even  noted  down,  as  one  of  the  finest  trees  in  sym- 
metry and  beauty  I had  ever  seen.  I have  received 
a document,  signed  by  two  citizens  of  a neighboring 
town,  certified  by  the  postmaster  and  a selectman,  and 
these  again  corroborated,  reinforced,  and  sworn  to  by 
a member  of  that  extraordinary  college-class  to  which 
it  is  the  good  fortune  of  my  friend  the  Professor  to 
belong,  who,  though  he  has  formerly  been  a member 
of  Congress,  is,  I believe,  fully  worthy  of  confidence. 
The  tree  ‘‘girts  ” eighteen  and  a half  feet,  and  spreads 
over  a hundred,  and  is  a real  beauty.  I hope  to  meet 
my  friend  under  its  branches  yet ; if  we  don’t  have 
“youth  at  the  prow,”  we  will  have  “pleasure  at  the 
’elm.” 

And  just  now,  again,  I have  got  a letter  about  some 
grand  willows  in  Maine,  and  another  about  an  elm  in 
Wayland,  but  too  late  for  anything  but  thanks.® 

“ There  are  trees  scattered  about  our  New  England  towns 
worth  going  a dozen  or  a score  of  miles  to  see,  if  one  only  knew 
where  to  look  for  them.  A mile  from  where  I am  now  writing 
(Beverly  Farms,  Essex  County,  Massachusetts)  is  one  of  the 
noblest  oaks  I have  ever  seen,  not  distinguished  so  much  for 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  289 

[And  this  leads  me  to  say,  that  I have  received  a 
great  many  communications,  in  prose  and  verse,  since 
I began  printing  these  notes.  The  last  came  this  very 
morning,  in  the  shape  of  a neat  and  brief  poem,  from 
New  Orleans.  I could  not  make  any  of  them  public, 
though  sometimes  requested  to  do  so.  Some  of  them 
have  given  me  great  pleasure,  and  encouraged  me  to 
believe  I had  friends  whose  faces  I had  never  seen. 
If  you  are  pleased  with  anything  a writer  says,  and 
doubt  whether  to  tell  him  of  it,  do  not  hesitate , a 
pleasant  word  is  a cordial  to  one,  who  perhaps  thinks 
he  is  tiring  you,  and  so  becomes  tired  himself.  I purr 
very  loud  over  a good,  honest  letter  that  says  pretty 
things  to  me.] 

■ — Sometimes  very  young  persons  send  communica- 
tions which  they  want  forwarded  to  editors  ; and  these 
young  persons  do  not  always  seem  to  have  right  con- 
ceptions of  these  same  editors,  and  of  the  public,  and 
of  themselves.  Here  is  a letter  I wrote  to  one  of  these 
young  folks,  but,  on  the  whole,  thought  it  best  not  to 
send.  It  is  not  fair  to  single  out  one  for  such  sharp 
advice,  where  there  are  hundreds  that  are  in  need  of 
it. 


Dear  Sir,  — You  seem  to  be  somewhat,  but  not  a 
great  deal,  wiser  than  I was  at  your  age.  I don’t  wish 
to  be  understood  as  saying  too  much,  for  I think, 

its  size,  though  its  branches  must  spread  a hundred  feet  from 
bough-end  to  bough-end,  as  for  its  beauty  and  lusty  promise.  A 
few  minutes  walk  from  the  station  at  Rockport  is  a horse-chest- 
nut which  is  remarkable  for  size  of  trunk  and  richness  of  foliage. 
I found  that  it  measures  eight  feet  and  three  inches  in  circum- 
ference, about  four  feet  from  the  ground.  There  may  be  larger 
horse-chestnut  trees  in  New  England,  but  I have  not  seen  or 
heard  of  them. 


19 


290  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


without  committing  myself  to  any  opinion  on  my  pres- 
ent state,  that  I was  not  a Solomon  at  that  stage  of 
development. 

You  long  to  ‘‘leap  at  a single  bound  into  celebrity.” 
Nothing  is  so  common-place  as  to  wish  to  be  remark- 
able. Fame  usually  comes  to  those  who  are  thinking 
about  something  else,  — very  rarely  to  those  who  say 
to  themselves,  “ Go  to,  now,  let  us  be  a celebrated  in- 
dividual ! ” The  struggle  for  fame,  as  such,  commonly 
ends  in  notoriety ; — that  ladder  is  easy  to  climb,  but 
it  leads  to  the  pillory  which  is  crowded  with  fools  who 
could  not  hold  their  tongues  and  rogues  who  could  not 
hide  their  tricks. 

If  you  have  the  consciousness  of  genius,  do  some- 
thing to  show  it.  The  world  is  pretty  quick,  nowa- 
days, to  catch  the  flavor  of  true  originality;  if  you 
write  anything  remarkable,  the  magazines  and  news- 
papers will  And  you  out,  as  the  schoolboys  find  out 
where  the  ripe  apples  and  pears  are.  Produce  any- 
thing really  good,  and  an  intelligent  editor  will  jump 
at  it.  Don’t  flatter  yourself  that  any  article  of  yours 
is  rejected  because  you  are  unknown  to  fame.  Noth- 
ing pleases  an  editor  more  than  to  get  anything  worth 
having  from  a new  hand.  There  is  always  a dearth 
of  really  fine  articles  for  a first-rate  journal ; for  of  a 
hundred  pieces  received,  ninety  are  at  or  below  the 
sea-level ; some  have  water  enough,  but  no  head ; some 
head  enough,  but  no  water ; only  two  or  three  are 
from  full  reservoirs,  high  up  that  hill  which  is  so  hard 
to  climb. 

You  may  have  genius.  The  contrary  is  of  course 
probable,  but  it  is  not  demonstrated.  If  you  have, 
the  world  wants  you  more  than  you  want  it.  It  has 
not  only  a desire,  but  a passion,  for  every  spark  of 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  291 


genius  that  shows  itself  among  us ; there  is  not  a hull- 
calf  in  our  national  pasture  that  can  bleat  a rhyme 
but  it  is  ten  to  one,  among  his  friends,  and  no  takers, 
that  he  is  the  real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Osiris. 

Qu'est  ce  qu^il  a fait  ? What  has  he  done  ? That 
was  Napoleon’s  test.  What  have  you  done  ? Turn 
up  the  faces  of  your  picture-cards,  my  boy ! You 
need  not  make  mouths  at  the  public  because  it  has  not 
accepted  you  at  your  own  fancy-valuation.  Do  the 
prettiest  thing  you  can  and  wait  your  time. 

For  the  verses  you  send  me,  I will  not  say  they  are 
hopeless,  and  I dare  not  affirm  that  they  show  prom- 
ise. I am  not  an  editor,  but  I know  the  standard 
of  some  editors.  You  must  not  expect  to  “ leap  with 
a single  bound  ” into  the  society  of  those  whom  it  is 
not  flattery  to  call  your  betters.  When  The  Pacto- 
lian”  has  paid  you  for  a copy  of  verses, — (I  can  fur- 
nish you  a list  of  alliterative  signatures,  beginning 
with  Annie  Aureole  and  ending  with  Zoe  Zenith),  — 
when  “ The  Rag-bag  ” has  stolen  your  piece,  after 
carefully  scratching  your  name  out, — when  “The  Nut- 
cracker ” has  thought  you  worth  shelling,  and  strung 
the  kernel  of  your  cleverest  poem,  — then,  and  not  till 
then,  you  may  consider  the  presumption  against  you, 
from  the  fact  of  your  rhyming  tendency,  as  called  in 
question,  and  let  our  friends  hear  from  you,  if  you 
think  it  worth  while.  You  may  possibly  think  me 
too  candid,  and  even  accuse  me  of  incivility ; but  let 
me  assure  you  that  I am  not  half  so  plain-spoken  as 
Nature,  nor  half  so  rude  as  Time.  If  you  prefer  the 
long  jolting  of  public  opinion  to  the  gentle  touch  of 
friendship,  try  it  like  a man.  Only  remember  this,  — 
that,  if  a bushel  of  potatoes  is  shaken  in  a market-cart 
without  springs  to  it,  the  small  potatoes  always  get  to 
the  bottom.  Believe  me,  etc.,  etc. 


292  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

I always  think  of  verse-writers,  when  I am  in  this 
vein  ; for  these  are  by  far  the  most  exacting,  eager, 
seK-weighing,  restless,  querulous,  unreasonable,  liter- 
ary persons  one  is  like  to  meet  with.  Is  a young  man 
in  the  habit  of  writing  verses  ? Then  the  presmnp- 
tion  is  that  he  is  an  inferior  person.  For,  look  you, 
there  are  at  least  nine  chances  in  ten  that  he  writes 
fooT  verses.  Now  the  habit  of  chewing  on  rhymes 
without  sense  and  soul  to  match  them  is,  like  that  of 
using  any  other  narcotic,  at  once  a proof  of  feebleness 
and  a debilitating  agent.  A young  man  can  get  rid 
of  the  presumption  against  him  afforded  by  his  writ- 
ing verses  only  by  convincing  us  that  they  are  verses 
worth  writing. 

All  this  sounds  hard  and  rough,  but,  observe,  it  is 
not  addressed  to  any  individual,  and  of  course  does 
not  refer  to  any  reader  of  these  pages.  I would 
always  treat  any  given  young  person  passing  through 
the  meteoric  showers  which  rain  down  on  the  brief 
period  of  adolescence  with  great  tenderness.  God 
forgive  us  if  we  ever  speak  harshly  to  young  creatures 
on  the  strength  of  these  ugly  truths,  and  so,  sooner  or 
later,  smite  some  tender-souled  poet  or  poetess  on  the 
lips  who  might  have  sung  the  world  into  sweet  trances, 
had  we  not  silenced  the  matin-song  in  its  first  low 
breathings!  Just  as  my  heart  yearns  over  the  un- 
loved, just  so  it  sorrows  for  the  ungifted  who  are 
doomed  to  the  pangs  of  an  undeceived  self-estimate. 
I have  always  tried  to  be  gentle  with  the  most  hope- 
less cases.  My  experience,  however,  has  not  been  en- 
couraging. 

— X.  Y.,  jet.  18,  a cheaply-got-up  youth,  with  nar- 
row jaws,  and  broad,  bony,  cold,  red  hands,  having 
been  laughed  at  by  the  girls  in  his  village,  and  “got 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  293 

the  mitten”  (pronounced  mittm)  two  or  three  times, 
fails  to  souling  and  controlling,  and  youthing  and 
truthing,  in  the  newspapers.  Sends  me  some  strings 
of  verses,  candidates  for  the  Orthopedic  Infirmary,  all 
of  them,  in  which  I learn  for  the  millionth  time  one 
of  the  following  facts : either  that  something  about  a 
chime  is  sublime,  or  that  something  about  time  is  sub- 
lime, or  that  something  about  a chime  is  concerned 
with  time,  or  that  something  about  a rhyme  is  sublime 
or  concerned  with  time  or  with  a chime.  Wishes  my 
opinion  of  the  same,  with  advice  as  to  his  future 
course. 

What  shall  I do  about  it?  Tell  him  the  whole 
truth,  and  send  him  a ticket  of  admission  to  the  In- 
stitution for  Idiots  and  Feeble-minded  Youth?  One 
does  n’t  like  to  be  cruel,  — and  yet  one  hates  to  lie. 
Therefore  one  softens  down  the  ugly  central  fact  of 
donkeyism,  — recommends  study  of  ^ood  models,  — 
that  writing  verse  should  be  an  incidental  occupation 
only,  not  interfering  with  the  hoe,  the  needle,  the  lap- 
stone,  or  the  ledger,  — and,  above  all,  that  there  should 
be  no  hurry  in  printing  what  is  written.  Not  the 
least  use  in  all  this.  The  poetaster  who  has  tasted 
type  is  done  for.  He  is  like  the  man  who  has  once 
been  a candidate  for  the  Presidency.  He  feeds  on 
the  madder  of  his  delusion  all  his  days,  and  his  very 
bones  grow  red  with  the  glow  of  his  foolish  fancy. 
One  of  these  young  brains  is  like  a bunch  of  India 
crackers  ; once  touch  fire  to  it  and  it  is  best  to  keep 
hands  off  until  it  has  done  popping,  — if  it  ever  stops. 
I have  two  letters  on  file ; one  is  a pattern  of  adula- 
tion, the  other  of  impertinence.  My  reply  to  the  first, 
containing  the  best  advice  I could  give,  conveyed 
in  courteous  language,  had  brought  out  the  second. 


294  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

There  was  some  sport  in  this,  but  Dulness  is  not  com- 
monly a game  fish,  and  only  sulks  after  he  is  struck. 
You  may  set  it  down  as  a truth  which  admits  of  few  ex- 
ceptions, that  those  who  ask  your  opinion  really  want 
your  praise^  and  will  be  contented  with  nothing  less. 

There  is  another  kind  of  application  to  which  edit- 
ors, or  those  supposed  to  have  access  to  them,  are  li- 
able, and  which  often  proves  trying  and  painful.  One 
is  appealed  to  in  behalf  of  some  person  in  needy  cir- 
cumstances who  wishes  to  make  a living  by  the  pen. 
A manuscript  accompanying  the  letter  is  offered  for 
publication.  It  is  not  commonly  brilliant,  too  often  it  is 
lamentably  deficient.  If  Rachel’s  saying  is  true,  that 

fortune  is  the  measure  of  intelligence,”  then  poverty 
is  evidence  of  limited  capacity,  which  it  too  frequently 
proves  to  be,  notwithstanding  a noble  exception  here 
and  there.  Now  an  editor  is  a person  imder  a contract 
with  the  public  to  furnish  them  with  the  best  things 
he  can  afford  for  his  money.  Charity  shown  by  the 
publication  of  an  inferior  article  would  be  like  the  gen- 
erosity of  Claude  Duval  and  the  other  gentlemen  high- 
waymen, who  pitied  the  poor  so  much  they  robbed  the 
rich  to  have  the  means  of  relieving  them. 

Though  I am  not  and  never  was  an  editor,  I know 
something  of  the  trials  to  which  they  are  submitted. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  develop  enormous  cal- 
luses at  every  point  of  contact  with  authorship.  Their 
business  is  not  a matter  of  sympathy,  but  of  intellect. 
They  must  reject  the  unfit  productions  of  those  whom 
they  long  to  befriend,  because  it  would  be  a profligate 
charity  to  accept  them.  One  cannot  burn  his  house 
down  to  warm  the  hands  even  of  the  fatherless  and 
the  widow. 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  295 


THE  PEOFESSOE  XJNDEE  CHLOEOFOEM. 

— You  haven’t  heard  about  my  friend  the  Profes- 
sor’s first  experiment  in  the  use  of  anaesthetics,  have 
you? 

He  was  mightily  pleased  with  the  reception  of  that 
poem  of  his  about  the  chaise.  He  spoke  to  me  once 
or  twice  about  another  poem  of  similar  character,  he 
wanted  to  read  me,  which  I told  him  I would  listen  to 
and  criticise. 

One  day,  after  dinner,  he  came  in  with  his  face  tied 
up,  looking  very  red  in  the  cheeks  and  heavy  about 
the  eyes.  — Hy’r’ye  ? — he  said,  and  made  for  an  arm- 
chair, in  which  he  placed  first  his  hat  and  then  his  per- 
son, going  smack  through  the  crown  of  the  former  as 
neatly  as  they  do  the  trick  at  the  circus.  The  Profes- 
sor jumped  at  the  explosion  as  if  he  had  sat  down  on 
one  of  those  small  caltrops  our  grandfathers  used  to 
sow  round  in  the  grass  when  there  were  Indians  about, 

iron  stars,  each  ray  a rusty  thorn  an  inch  and  a half 

long,  — stick  through  moccasins  into  feet,  — cripple 
’em  on  the  spot,  and  give  ’em  lockjaw  in  a day  or  two. 

At  the  same  time  he  let  off  one  of  those  big  words 
which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  best  man’s  vocabulary, 
but  perhaps  never  turn  up  in  his  life,  — just  as  every 
man’s  hair  may  stand  on  end,  but  in  most  men  it  never 
does. 

After  he  had  got  calm,  he  pulled  out  a sheet  or  two 
of  manuscript,  together  with  a smaller  scrap,  on  which, 
as  he  said,  he  had  just  been  writing  an  introduction  or 
prelude  to  the  main  performance.  A certain  suspi- 
cion had  come  into  my  mind  that  the  Professor  was 
not  quite  right,  which  was  confirmed  by  the  way  he 
talked ; but  I let  him  begin.  This  is  the  way  he  read 
it : — 


296  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Prelude, 

I ’m  the  fellah  that  tole  one  day 
The  tale  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay. 

Wan’  to  hear  another  ? Say. 

— Funny,  was  n’  it?  Made  me  laugh, — 

I ’m  too  modest,  I am,  by  half,  — 

Made  me  laugh  though  I sh'd  splits — 

Cahn’  a fellah  like  fellah’s  own  wit  ? 

— Fellahs  keep  sayin’,  — “ Well,  now  that ’s  nice; 

Did  it  once,  but  cahn’  do  it  twice.”  — 

Don’  you  b’lieve  the’z  no  more  fat; 

Lots  in  the  kitch’n  ’z  good  ’z  that. 

Fus’-rate  throw,  ’n’  no  mistake,  — 

Han’  us  the  props  for  another  shake ; — 

Know  I ’ll  try,  ’n’  guess  I ’ll  win; 

Here  sh’  goes  for  hit ’m  ag’in! 

Here  I thought  it  necessary  to  interpose.  — Pro- 
fessor, — I said,  — you  are  inebriated.  The  style  of 
what  you  call  your  Prelude  ” shows  that  it  was 
written  under  cerebral  excitement.  Your  articulation 
is  confused.  You  have  told  me  three  times  in  suc- 
cession, in  exactly  the  same  words,  that  I was  the 
only  true  friend  you  had  in  the  world  that  you  would 
unbutton  your  heart  to.  You  smell  distinctly  and 
decidedly  of  spirits.  — I spoke,  and  paused;  tender, 
but  firm. 

Two  large  tears  orbed  themselves  beneath  the  Pro- 
fessor’s lids,  — in  obedience  to  the  principle  of  gravi- 
tation celebrated  in  that  delicious  bit  of  bladdery 
bathos,  ‘‘The  very  law  that  moulds  a tear,”  with 
which  the  “ Edinburgh  Review  ” attempted  to  put 
down  Master  George  Gordon  when  that  young  man 
was  foolishly  trying  to  make  himself  conspicuous. 

One  of  these  tears  peeped  over  the  edge  of  the  lid 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  297 

until  it  lost  its  balance,  — slid  an  inch  and  waited  for 
reinforcements,  — swelled  again,  — rolled  down  a lit- 
tle further,  — stopped,  — moved  on,  — and  at  last  fell 
on  the  back  of  the  Professor’s  hand.  He  held  it  up 
for  me  to  look  at,  and  lifted  his  eyes,  brimful,  till 
they  met  mine. 

I could  n’t  stand  it,  — I always  break  down  when 
folks  cry  in  my  face, — so  I hugged  him,  and  said  he 
was  a dear  old  boy,  and  asked  him  kindly  what  was 
the  matter  with  him,  and  what  made  him  smell  so 
dreadfully  strong  of  spirits. 

Upset  his  alcohol  lamp,  — he  said,  — and  spilt  the 
alcohol  on  his  legs.  That  was  it.  — But  what  had  he 
been  doing  to  get  his  head  into  such  a state  ? — had 
he  really  committed  an  excess  ? What  was  the  mat- 
ter ? — Then  it  came  out  that  he  had  been  taking 
chloroform  to  have  a tooth  out,  which  had  left  him  in 
a very  queer  state,  in  which  he  had  written  the  “ Pre- 
lude ” given  above,  and  under  the  influence  of  which 
he  evidently  was  still. 

I took  the  manuscript  from  his  hands  and  read 
the  following  continuation  of  the  lines  he  had  begun 
to  read  me,  while  he  made  up  for  two  or  three  nights’ 
lost  sleep  as  he  best  might. 

PARSON  TURELL’S  LEGACY: 

OR,  THE  PRESIDENT’S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

A MATHEMATICAL  STORY. 

Facts  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 

At  Cambridge.  Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 

That ’s  remarkable  when  I say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 


298  THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 

Died,  at  one  hundred^  years  ago.) 

He  took  lodging  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  ’69. 

Know  old  Cambridge  ? Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there?  Don’t  say  so!  I was,  too. 
(Born  in  a house  with  a gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 

“ Gambrel?  — Gambrel?  ” — Let  me  beg 
You  ’ll  look  at  a horse’s  hinder  leg,  — 

First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 

That ’s  the  gambrel;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 

— Kicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 

Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don’t  rise,  — 

When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 

In  a quiet  slumber  lies. 

Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be. 

Facing  the  flow  of  a boundless  sea. 

Bows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Banged  like  rocks  above  the  sand; 

Bolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green. 

Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen, — 

One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four, 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor; 

Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more. 

Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore! 

— Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play;  — 

Better  keep  your  girls  away; 

Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 

And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BKEAKFAST-TABLE.  299 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there;  — 

I ’m  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 

You  ’ve  heard,  no  doubt,  of  Parson  Turell? 

Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell; 

Married  one  of  the  Mathers’  folk; 

Got  with  his  wife  a chair  of  oak,  — 

Funny  old  chair,  with  seat  like  wedge, 

Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 

One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 

Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings, — 

But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand,  — 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land, — 

Chief- Justice  Sewall  a cause  to  try  in. 

Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit,  — and  lie,  — in. 

— Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a certain  student,  — Smith  by  name; 

These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told: 

“'Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde; 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 
To  y®  oldest  Youth  in  y®  Senior  Classe. 

On  Payment  of  ” — (naming  a certain  sum)  — 

“ By  him  to  whom  y®  Chaire  shall  come; 

He  to  y®  oldest  Senior  next. 

And  soe  forever,”  — (thus  runs  the  text,) — 

“ But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claime, 

That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same.” 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  Browns, 

And  took  his  money,  — five  silver  crowns. 

Brown  delivered  it  up  to  Moore, 

Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 

Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  Lee, 

Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 

Lee  conveyed  it  unto  Drew, 

And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 

Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  Dunn, — 

All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 

Dunn  released  the  chair  to  Hall, 

And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 

— And  now  it  passed  to  a second  Brown, 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


Who  took  it,  and  likewise  claimed  a crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  Ware, 

Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair. 

He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair; 

And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 

He  paid  one  Potter,  who  took  it,  three. 

Four  got  Robinson;  five  got  Dix; 

Johnson demanded  six; 

And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker’s  Hill 

— When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 

Folks  would  n’t  count  it,  but  said  “ a heap,” 

A certain  Richards,  the  books  declare, 

(A.  M.  in  ’90?  I ’ve  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  — name  not  there.') 

This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten; 

Nine,  I think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 

Not  quite  certain,  — but  see  the  book. 

— By  and  by  the  wars  were  still. 

But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson’s  will. 

The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet. 

But  saddled  with  such  a monstrous  debt ! 

Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear. 

Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair! 

But  dead  men’s  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 

And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white. 

Plain  enough  for  a child  to  spell. 

What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell. 

For  the  chair  was  a kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 

They  got  old  Governor  Hancock  out. 

The  Governor  came,  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop; 
Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 

French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 

The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath; 


THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE.  301 


So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 

Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

— The  Governor  “ hefted  the  crowns,  and  said,  — 
“A  will  is  a will,  and  the  Parson’s  dead.” 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.  Said  he,  — 

“ There  is  your  p’int.  And  here  ’s  my  fee. 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil, — 

On  such  conditions  I break  the  will!  ” 

The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 
(Just  wait  a minute  and  then  you  ’ll  see.) 

The  President  prayed.  Then  all  was  still, 

And  the  Governor  rose  and  broke  the  will  ! 

— “ About  those  conditions?  ” Well,  now  you  go 
And  do  as  I tell  you,  and  then  you  ’ll  know. 

Once  a year,  on  Commencement-day, 

If  you  ’ll  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 

You  ’ll  see  the  President  in  the  Chair, 

Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 

The  President  rises ; both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a foreign  tongue, 

The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 

Is  this:  Can  I keep  this  old  arm-chair? 

And  then  his  Excellency  bows. 

As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 

The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name; 

He  bows  like  t’other,  which  means  the  same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  ’em  bow, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 

And  a lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 

And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you.  Gentlemen!  Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 

Don’t  be  silly  and  think  you  ’ll  try 
To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die. 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that. 

That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat? 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n’t  spill, 
And  there  ’s  always  a flaw  in  a donkey’s  will! 


302  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

— Hospitality  is  a good  deal  a matter  of  latitude,  I 
suspect.  The  shade  of  a palm-tree  serves  an  African 
for  a hut ; his  dwelling  is  all  door  and  no  walls ; every- 
body can  come  in.  To  make  a morning  call  on  an 
Esquimaux  acquaintance,  one  must  creep  through  a 
long  tunnel;  his  house  is  all  walls  and  no  door,  ex- 
cept such  a one  as  an  apple  with  a worm-hole  has. 
One  might,  very  probably,  trace  a regular  gradation 
between  these  two  extremes.  In  cities  where  the 
evenings  are  generally  hot,  the  people  have  porches 
at  their  doors,  where  they  sit,  and  this  is,  of  course, 
a provocative  to  the  interchange  of  civilities.  A good 
deal,  which  in  colder  regions  is  ascribed  to  mean  dis- 
positions, belongs  really  to  mean  temperature. 

Once  in  a while,  even  in  our  Northern  cities,  at 
noon,  in  a very  hot  summer’s  day,  one  may  realize, 
by  a sudden  extension  in  his  sphere  of  consciousness, 
how  closely  he  is  shut  up  for  the  most  part.  — Do 
you  not  remember  something  like  this?  July,  be- 
tween 1 and  2 p.  M.,  Fahrenheit  or  thereabout. 
Windows  all  gaping,  like  the  mouths  of  panting  dogs. 
Long,  stinging  cry  of  a locust  comes  in  from  a tree, 
half  a mile  off ; had  forgotten  there  was  such  a tree. 
Baby’s  screams  from  a house  several  blocks  distant ; 
— never  knew  there  were  any  babies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood before.  Tinman  pounding  something  that  clat- 
ters dreadfully,  — very  distinct  but  don’t  remember 
any  tinman’s  shop  near  by.  Horses  stamping  on 
pavement  to  get  off  flies.  When  you  hear  these 
four  sounds,  you  may  set  it  down  as  a warm  day. 
Then  it  is  that  one  would  like  to  imitate  the  mode 
of  life  of  the  native  at  Sierra  Leone,  as  somebody 
has  described  it : stroll  into  the  market  in  natural 
costume,  — buy  a water-melon  for  a halfpenny,  — • 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAK:rAST-TABLE.  303 

split  it,  ano  scoop  out  the  middle,  — sit  down  in  one 
half  of  the  empty  rind,  clap  the  other  on  one’s  head, 
and  feast  upon  the  pulp. 

— I see  some  of  the  London  journals  have  been 
attacking  some  of  their  literary  people  for  lecturing, 
on  the  ground  of  its  being  a public  exhibition  of  them- 
selves for  money.  A popular  author  can  print  his 
lecture ; if  he  deliver  it,  it  is  a case  of  qumstum  cor- 
pore^  or  making  profit  of  his  person.  None  but 

snobs  ” do  that.  Ergo^  etc.  To  this  I reply,  — 
Negatur  minor.  Her  most  Gracious  Majesty,  the 
Queen,  exhibits  herself  to  the  public  as  a part  of  the 
service  for  which  she  is  paid.  We  do  not  consider 
it  low-bred  in  her  to  pronounce  her  own  speech,  and 
should  prefer  it  so  to  hearing  it  from  any  other  per- 
son, or  reading  it.  His  Grace  and  his  Lordship  ex- 
hibit themselves  very  often  for  popularity,  and  their 
houses  every  day  for  money.  — No,  if  a man  shows 
himself  other  than  he  is,  if  he  belittles  himself  before 
an  audience  for  hire,  then  he  acts  unworthily.  But  a 
true  word,  fresh  from  the  lips  of  a true  man,  is  worth 
paying  for,  at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a day,  or  even 
of  fifty  dollars  a lecture.  The  taunt  must  be  an  out- 
break of  jealousy  against  the  renowned  authors  who 
have  the  audacity  to  be  also  orators.  The  sub-lieuten- 
ants (of  the  press)  stick  a too  popular  writer  and 
speaker  with  an  epithet  in  England,  instead  of  with 
a rapier,  as  in  France.  — Poh!  All  England  is  one 
great  menagerie,  and,  all  at  once,  the  jackal,  who  ad- 
mires the  gilded  cage  of  the  royal  beast,  must  protest 
against  the  vulgarity  of  the  talking-bird’s  and  the 
nightingale’s  being  willing  to  become  a part  of  the  ex- 
hibition ! 


804  THE  AUTOCRAT  OP  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 


THE  LONG  PATH. 

(Last  of  the  Parentheses.') 

Yes,  that  was  my  last  walk  with  the  schoolmistress. 
It  happened  to  be  the  end  of  a term ; and  before  the 
next  began,  a very  nice  young  woman,  who  had  been 
her  assistant,  was  announced  as  her  successor,  and  she 
was  provided  for  elsewhere.  So  it  was  no  longer  the 
schoolmistress  that  I walked  with,  but  — Let  us  not 
be  in  unseemly  haste.  I shall  call  her  the  school- 
mistress still ; some  of  you  love  her  under  that  name. 

— When  it  became  known  among  the  boarders 
that  two  of  their  number  had  joined  hands  to  walk 
down  the  long  path  of  life  side  by  side,  there  was,  as 
you  may  suppose,  no  small  sensation.  I confess  I 
pitied  our  landlady.  It  took  her  all  of  a suddin,  — 
she  said.  Had  not  known  that  we  was  keepin’  com- 
pany, and  never  mistrusted  anything  partic’lar.  Ma’am 
was  right  to  better  herself.  Did  n’t  look  very  rugged 
to  take  care  of  a femily,  but  could  get  hired  haalp, 
she  calc’lated.  — The  great  maternal  instinct  came 
crowding  up  in  her  soul  just  then,  and  her  eyes  wan- 
dered until  they  settled  on  her  daughter. 

— No,  poor,  dear  woman,  that  could  not  have 
been.  But  I am  dropping  one  of  my  internal  tears 
for  you,  with  this  pleasant  smile  on  my  face  all  the 
time. 

The  great  mystery  of  God’s  providence  is  the  per- 
mitted crushing  out  of  flowering  instincts.  Life  is 
maintained  by  the  respiration  of  oxygen  and  of  sen- 
timents. In  the  long  catalogue  of  scientific  cruelties 
there  is  hardly  anything  quite  so  painful  to  think  of 
as  that  experiment  of  putting  an  animal  under  the 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  305 

bell  of  an  air-pump  and  exhausting  the  air  from  it. 
[I  never  saw  the  accursed  trick  performed.  Laus 
Deo  .^]  There  comes  a time  when  the  souls  of  human 
beings,  women,  perhaps,  more  even  than  men,  begin 
to  faint  for  the  atmosphere  of  the  affections  they  were 
made  to  breathe.  Then  it  is  that  Society  places  its 
transparent  bell-glass  over  the  young  woman  who  is  to 
be  the  subject  of  one  of  its  fatal  experiments.  The 
element  by  which  only  the  heart  lives  is  sucked  out  of 
her  crystalline  prison.  Watch  her  through  its  trans- 
parent walls  ; — her  bosom  is  heaving  ; but  it  is  in  a 
vacuum.  Death  is  no  riddle,  compared  to  this.  I 
remember  a poor  girl’s  story  in  the  Book  of  Mar- 
tyrs.” The  “ dry-pan  and  the  gradual  fire  ” were  the 
images  that  frightened  her  most.  How  many  have 
withered  and  wasted  under  as  slow  a torment  in  the 
walls  of  that  larger  Inquisition  which  we  call  Civiliza- 
tion ! 

Yes,  my  surface-thought  laughs  at  you,  you  foolish, 
plain,  overdressed,  mincing,  cheaply-organized,  self- 
saturated  young  person,  whoever  you  may  be,  now 
reading  this,  — little  thinking  you  are  what  I describe, 
and  in  blissful  unconsciousness  that  you  are  destined 
to  the  lingering  asphyxia  of  soul  which  is  the  lot  of 
such  multitudes  worthier  than  yourself.  But  it  is  only 
my  surface-thought  which  laughs.  For  that  great  pro- 
cession of  the  UNLOVED,  who  not  only  wear  the  crown 
of  thorns,  but  must  hide  it  under  the  locks  of  brown 
or  gray,  — under  the  snowy  cap,  under  the  chilling 
turban,  — hide  it  even  from  themselves,  — perhaps 
never  know  they  wear  it,  though  it  kills  them,  — there 
is  no  depth  of  tenderness  in  my  nature  that  Pity  has 
not  sounded.  Somewhere,  — somewhere,  — love  is  in 
store  for  them,  — the  universe  must  not  be  allowed  to 
20 


306  THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

fool  them  so  cruelly.  What  infinite  pathos  in  the 
small,  half -unconscious  artifices  by  which  unattractive 
young  persons  seek  to  recommend  themselves  to  the 
favor  of  those  towards  whom  our  dear  sisters,  the  un- 
loved, like  the  rest,  are  impelled  by  their  God-given 
instincts  ! 

Read  what  the  singing-women  — one  to  ten  thou- 
sand of  the  suffering  women  — tell  us,  and  think  of 
the  griefs  that  die  unspoken ! Nature  is  in  earnest 
when  she  makes  a woman ; and  there  are  women 
enough  lying  in  the  next  churchyard  with  very  com- 
monplace blue  slate-stones  at  their  head  and  feet,  for 
whom  it  was  just  as  true  that  all  sounds  of  life  as- 
sumed one  tone  of  love,”  as  for  Letitia  Landon,  of 
whom  Elizabeth  Browning  said  it ; but  she  could  give 
words  to  her  grief,  and  they  could  not.  — Will  you 
hear  a few  stanzas  of  mine  ? 

THE  VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber,  — 

But  o’er  their  silent  sister’s  breast 

The  wild^flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 

A few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them;  — 

Alas  for  those  who  never  sing. 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts’  sad  story,  — 

Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory! 

Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 
O’er  Sappho’s  memory-haunted  billow. 

But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 
On  nameless  sorrow’s  churchyard  pillow. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  307 


O hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 

Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery’s  crushing  presses,  — 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 
To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 

What  endless  melodies  were  poured. 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven! 

I hope  that  our  landlady’s  daughter  is  not  so  badly 
off,  after  all.  That  young  man  from  another  city, 
who  made  the  remark  which  you  remember  about 
Boston  State-house  and  Boston  folks,  has  appeared  at 
our  table  repeatedly  of  late,  and  has  seemed  to  me 
rather  attentive  to  this  young  lady.  Only  last  evening 
I saw  him  leaning  over  her  while  she  was  playing  the 
accordion,  — indeed,  I undertook  to  join  them  in  a 
song,-  and  got  as  far  as  Come  rest  in  this  boo-oo,” 
when,  my  voice  getting  tremulous,  I turned  off,  as  one 
steps  out  of  a procession,  and  left  the  basso  and  so- 
prano to  finish  it.  I see  no  reason  why  this  young 
woman  should  not  be  a very  proper  match  for  a man 
who  laughs  about  Boston  State-house.  He  can’t  be 
very  particular. 

The  young  fellow  whom  I have  so  often  mentioned 
was  a little  free  in  his  remarks,  but  very  good-natured. 
— Sorry  to  have  you  go,  — he  said.  — Schoolnia’am 
made  a mistake  not  to  wait  for  me.  Have  n’t  taken 
anything  but  mournin’  fruit  at  breakfast  since  I heard 
of  it.  — Mourning  fruity  — said  I,  — what ’s  that  ? — 
Huckleberries  and  blackberries,  — said  he ; — could  n’t 
eat  in  colors,  raspberries,  currants,  and  such,  after  a 
solemn  thing  like  this  happening.  — The  conceit 
seemed  to  please  the  young  fellow.  If  you  will  be- 
lieve it,  when  we  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next 


308  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

morning,  he  had  carried  it  out  as  follows.  You  know 
those  odious  little  saas-plates  ” that  figure  so  largely 
at  boarding-houses,  and  especially  at  taverns,  into 
which  a strenuous  attendant  female  trowels  little  dabs, 
sombre  of  tint  and  heterogeneous  of  composition,  which 
it  makes  you  feel  homesick  to  look  at,  and  into  which 
you  poke  the  elastic  coppery  teaspoon  with  the  air  of 
a cat  dipping  her  foot  into  a wash-tub,  — (not  that  I 
mean  to  say  anything  against  them,  for,  when  they  are 
of  tinted  porcelain  or  starry  many-faceted  crystal, 
and  hold  clean  bright  berries,  or  pale  virgin  honey, 
or  lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon,”  and  the  tea- 
spoon is  of  white  silver,  with  the  Hall-mark,  solid,  but 
not  brutally  heavy,  — as  people  in  the  green  stage  of 
millionism  will  have  them,  — I can  dally  with  their 
amber  semi-fluids  or  glossy  spherules  without  a 
shiver),  — you  know  these  small,  deep  dishes,  I say. 
When  we  came  down  the  next  morning,  each  of  these 
(two  only  excepted)  was  covered  with  a broad  leaf. 
On  lifting  this,  each  boarder  found  a small  heap  of 
solemn  black  huckleberries.  But  one  of  those  plates 
held  red  currants,  and  was  covered  with  a red  rose ; 
the  other  held  white  currants,  and  was  covered  with  a 
white  rose.  There  was  a laugh  at  this  at  first,  and 
then  a short  silence,  and  I noticed  that  her  lip  trem- 
bled, and  the  old  gentleman  opposite  was  in  trouble  to 
get  at  his  bandanna  handkerchief. 

— “ What  was  the  use  in  waiting  ? We  should  be 
too  late  for  Switzerland,  that  season,  if  we  waited 
much  longer.”  — The  hand  I held  trembled  in  mine, 
and  the  eyes  fell  meekly,  as  Esther  bowed  herself  be- 
fore the  feet  of  Ahasuerus.  — She  had  been  reading 
that  chapter,  for  she  looked  up,  — if  there  was  a film 
of  moisture  over  her  eyes  there  was  also  the  faintest 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  809 

shadow  of  a distant  smile  skirting  her  lips,  but  not 
enough  to  accent  the  dimples,  — and  said,  in  her 
pretty,  still  way,  — ‘‘If  it  please  the  king,  and  if  I 
have  found  favor  in  his  sight,  and  the  thing  seem 
right  before  the  king,  and  I be  pleasing  in  his 
eyes  ” — 

I don’t  remember  what  King  Ahasuerus  did  or  said 
when  Esther  got  just  to  that  point  of  her  soft,  humble 
words,  — but  I know  what  I did.  That  quotation 
from  Scripture  was  cut  short,  anyhow.  We  came  to 
a compromise  on  the  great  question,  and  the  time  was 
settled  for  the  last  day  of  summer. 

In  the  mC’an  time,  I talked  on  with  our  boarders, 
much  as  usual,  as  you  may  see  by  what  I have  re- 
ported. I must  say,  I was  pleased  with  a certain  ten- 
derness they  all  showed  toward  us,  after  the  first 
excitement  of  the  news  was  over.  It  came  out  in 
trivial  matters,  — but  each  one,  in  his  or  her  way, 
manifested  kindness.  Our  landlady,  for  instance, 
when  we  had  chickens,  sent  the  liver  instead  of  the 
gizzard^  with  the  wing,  for  the  schoolmistress.  This 
was  not  an  accident;  the  two  are  never  mistaken, 
though  some  landladies  appear  as  if  they  did  not 
know  the  difference.  The  whole  of  the  company  were 
even  more  respectfully  attentive  to  my  remarks  than 
usual.  There  was  no  idle  punning,  and  very  little 
winking  on  the  part  of  that  lively  young  gentleman 
who,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  occasionally  inter- 
posed some  playful  question  or  remark,  which  could 
hardly  be  considered  relevant,  — except  when  the  least 
allusion  was  made  to  matrimony,  when  he  would  look 
at  the  landlady’s  daughter,  and  wink  with  both  sides 
of  his  face,  until  she  would  ask  what  he  was  pokin’ 
his  fun  at  her  for,  and  if  he  was  n’t  ashamed  of  him 


310  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

self.  In  fact,  they  all  behaved  very  handsomely,  so 
that  I really  felt  sorry  at  the  thought  of  leaving  my 
boarding-house. 

I suppose  you  think,  that,  because  I lived  at  a plain 
widow-woman’s  plain  table,  I was  of  course  more  or 
less  infirm  in  point  of  worldly  fortune.  You  may  not 
be  sorry  to  learn,  that,  though  not  what  great  mer- 
chants call  very  rich,  I was  comfortable,  — comforta- 
ble, — so  that  most  of  those  moderate  luxuries  I de- 
scribed in  my  verses  on  Contentment  — most  of  them, 
I say  — were  within  our  reach,  if  we  chose  to  have 
them.  But  I found  out  that  the  schoolmistress  had 
a vein  of  charity  about  her,  which  had  hitherto  been 
worked  on  a small  silver  and  copper  basis,  which  made 
her  think  less,  perhaps,  of  luxuries  than  even  I did,  — 
modestly  as  I have  expressed  my  wishes. 

It  is  a rather  pleasant  thing  to  tell  a poor  young 
woman,  whom  one  has  contrived  to  win  without  show- 
ing his  rent-roll,  that  she  has  found  what  the  world 
values  so  highly,  in  following  the  lead  of  her  affec- 
tions. That  was  an  enjoyment  I was  now  ready  for. 

I began  abruptly : — Do  you  know  that  you  are  a 
rich  young  person  ? 

I know  that  I am  very  rich,  — she  said.  — Heaven 
has  given  me  more  than  I ever  asked ; for  I had  not 
thought  love  was  ever  meant  for  me. 

It  was  a woman’s  confession,  and  her  voice  fell  to 
a whisper  as  it  threaded  the  last  words. 

I don’t  mean  that,  — I said,  — you  blessed  little 
saint  and  seraph ! — if  there ’s  an  angel  missing  in  the 
New  Jerusalem,  inquire  for  her  at  this  boarding-house! 

— I don’t  mean  that  I I mean  that  I — that  is,  you 

— am  — are  — confound  it  1 — I mean  that  you  ’ll  be 
what  most  people  call  a lady  of  fortune.  — And  I 


THE  AUTOCKAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  311 


looked  full  in  her  eyes  for  the  effect  of  the  announce- 
ment. 

There  was  n’t  any.  She  said  she  was  thankful  that 
I had  what  would  save  me  from  drudgery,  and  that 
some  other  time  I should  tell  her  about  it.  — I never 
made  a greater  failure  in  an  attempt  to  produce  a 
sensation. 

So  the  last  day  of  summer  came.  It  was  our  choice 
to  go  to  the  church,  but  we  had  a kind  of  reception  at 
the  boarding-house.  The  presents  were  all  arranged, 
and  among  them  none  gave  more  pleasure  than  the 
modest  tributes  of  our  fellow-boarders,  — for  there  was 
not  one,  I believe,  who  did  not  send  something.  The 
landlady  would  insist  on  making  an  elegant  bride- 
cake, with  her  own  hands  ; to  which  Master  Benjamin 
Franklin  wished  to  add  certain  embellishments  out  of 
his  private  funds,  — namely,  a Cupid  in  a mouse-trap, 
done  in  white  sugar,  and  two  miniature  flags  with  the 
stars  and  stripes,  which  had  a very  pleasing  effect,  I as- 
sure you.  The  landlady’s  daughter  sent  a richly  bound 
copy  of  Tupper’s  Poems.  On  a blank  leaf  was  the  fol- 
lowing, written  in  a very  delicate  and  careful  hand : — 

Presented  to  . . . by  . . . 

On  the  eve  ere  her  union  in  holy  matrimony. 

May  sunshine  ever  beam  o’er  her! 

Even  the  poor  relative  thought  she  must  do  some- 
thing, and  sent  a copy  of  The  Whole  Duty  of 
Man,”  bound  in  very  attractive  variegated  sheepskin, 
the  edges  nicely  marbled.  From  the  divinity-student 
came  the  loveliest  English  edition  of  ‘‘  Keble’s  Chris- 
tian Year.”  I opened  it,  when  it  came,  to  the  Fourth 
Sunday  in  Lent^  and  read  that  angelic  poem,  sweeter 
than  anything  I can  remember  since  Xavier’s  ‘^My 
God,  I love  Thee.” 1 am  not  a Churchman,  — I 


312  THE  AUTOCEAT  OF  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE. 

don’t  believe  in  planting  oaks  in  flower-pots,  — but 
such  a poem  as  The  Kosebud  ” makes  one’s  heart  a 
proselyte  to  the  culture  it  grows  from.  Talk  about 
it  as  much  as  you  like,  — one’s  breeding  shows  itself 
nowhere  more  than  in  his  religion.  A man  should  be 
a gentleman  in  his  hymns  and  prayers ; the  fondness 
for  scenes,”  among  vulgar  saints,  contrasts  so  meanly 
with  that  — 

‘‘  God  only  and  good  angels  look 
Behind  the  blissful  scene,’’  — 

and  that  other,  — 

“ He  could  not  trust  his  melting  soul 
But  in  his  Maker’s  sight, — 

that  I hope  some  of  them  will  see  this,  and  read  the 
poem,  and  profit  by  it. 

My  laughing  and  winking  young  friend  undertook 
to  procure  and  arrange  the  flowers  for  the  table,  and 
did  it  with  immense  zeal.  I never  saw  him  look  hap- 
pier than  when  he  came  in,  his  hat  saucily  on  one  side, 
and  a cheroot  in  his  mouth,  with  a huge  bunch  of  tea- 
roses,  which  he  said  were  for  “ Madam.” 

One  of  the  last  things  that  came  was  an  old  square 
box,  smelling  of  camphor,  tied  and  sealed.  It  bore, 
in  faded  ink,  the  marks,  Calcutta,  1805.”  On  open- 
ing it,  we  found  a white  Cashmere  shawl  with  a very 
brief  note  from  the  dear  old  gentleman  opposite,  say- 
ing that  he  had  kept  this  some  years  thinking  he 
might  want  it,  and  many  more,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  with  it,  — that  he  had  never  seen  it  unfolded  since 
he  was  a young  supercargo,  — and  now,  if  she  would 
spread  it  on  her  shoulders,  it  would  make  him  feel 
young  to  look  at  it. 

Poor  Bridget,  or  Biddy,  our  red-armed  maid  of  all 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  313 

work!  What  must  she  do  but  buy  a small  copper 
breast-pin  and  put  it  under  Schoolma’am’s  ” plate 
that  morning,  at  breakfast  ? And  Schoolma’am  would 
wear  it,  — though  I made  her  cover  it,  as  well  as  I 
coidd,  with  a tea-rose. 

It  was  my  last  breakfast  as  a boarder,  and  I could 
not  leave  them  in  utter  silence. 

Good-by,  — I said,  — my  dear  friends,  one  and  all 
of  you  ! I have  been  long  with  you,  and  I find  it  hard 
parting.  I have  to  thank  you  for  a thousand  courte- 
sies, and  above  all  for  the  patience  and  indulgence 
with  which  you  have  listened  to  me  when  I have  tried 
to  instruct  or  amuse  you.  My  friend  the  Professor 
(who,  as  well  as  my  friend  the  Poet,  is  unavoidably 
absent  on  this  interesting  occasion)  has  given  me  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  he  would  occupy  my  empty  chair 
about  the  first  of  January  next.  If  he  comes  among 
you,  be  kind  to  him,  as  you  have  been  to  me.  May 
the  Lord  bless  you  all  I — And  we  shook  hands  all 
round  the  table. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  the  breakfast  things  and 
the  cloth  were  gone.  I looked  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  bare  boards  over  which  I had  so  often  uttered 
my  sentiments  and  experiences  — and  — Yes,  I am  a 
man,  like  another. 

All  sadness  vanished,  as,  in  the  midst  of  these  old 
friends  of  mine,  whom  you  know,  and  others  a little 
more  up  in  the  world,  perhaps,  to  whom  I have  not 
introduced  you,  I took  the  schoolmistress  before  the 
altar  from  the  hands  of  the  old  gentleman  who  used 
to  sit  opposite,  and  who  would  insist  on  giving  her 
away. 

And  now  we  two  are  walking  the  long  path  in  peace 
together.  The  schoolmistress  ” finds  her  skill  in 


314  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

teaching  called  for  again,  without  going  abroad  to 
seek  little  scholars.  Those  visions  of  mine  have  all 
come  true. 

I hope  you  all  love  me  none  the  less  for  anything  I 
have  told  you.  Farewell ! 


INDEX 


Abuse,  all  good  attempts  get,  81. 

^Estivation,  263. 

Affinities  and  antipathies,  220. 

Agassiz,  2. 

Age,  softening  effects  of,  81  ; begins 
when  fire  goes  down,  150  ; Roman 
age  of  enlistment,  151 ; its  changes  a 
string  of  insults,  153. 

A good  time  going,  223. 

Air-pump,  animal  under,  304. 

Album  Verses,  15. 

Alps,  effect  of  looking  at,  267. 

American,  the  Englishman  reinforced 
(a  noted  person  thinks),  238. 

Analogies,  power  of  seeing,  83. 

Anatomist’s  Hymn,  The,  175. 

Anglo-Saxons  die  out  in  America  (Dr. 
Knox  thinks),  238. 

Anniversaries  dreaded  by  the  Poet,  and 
why,  222. 

Argonauta,  97. 

Arguments,  what  are  those  which  spoil 
conversation,  10. 

Aristocracy,  the  forming  American,  259 ; 
pluck  the  back-bone  of,  261. 

Artists  apt  to  act  mechanically  on  their 
brains,  187. 

Assessors,  Heaven’s,  effect  of  meeting 
one  of  them,  92. 

Asylum,  the,  247. 

Audience,  average  intellect  of,  140  ; as- 
pect of,  140 ; a compound  vertebrate, 
141. 

Audiences  very  nearly  alike,  141 ; good 
feeling  and  intelligence  of,  142. 

Author  does  not  hate  anybody,  219. 

Authors,  jockeying  of,  37 ; purr  if  skil- 
fully handled,  49;  hate  those  who 
call  them,  droll,  49 ; ashamed  of  being 
funny,  50;  always  praise  after  fifty, 
81. 

Automatic  principles  appear  more  prev- 
alent the  more  we  study,  85 ; mental 
actions,  134. 

Averages,  their  awful  uniformity,  140. 

Babies,  old,  154. 

Bacon,  Lord,  271. 

Balzac,  149,  271. 

Beauties,  vulgar,  their  virtuous  indigna- 
tion on  being  looked  at,  194. 


Beliefs  like  ancient  drinking-glasses,  15. 

Bell-glass,  young  woman  under,  305. 

Benicia  Boy,  not  challenged  by  the  Pro- 
fessor, and  why,  173. 

Benjamin  Franklin,  the  landlady’s  son, 
12,  53,  57,  87,  116,  135,  136,  246,  311. 

Berkshire,  235,  245,  265. 

Berne,  leap  from  the  platform  at,  281. 

Blake,  Mr.,  his  Jesse  Rural,  90. 

Blondes,  two  kinds  of,  184. 

“ Blooded  ” horses,  37. 

Boat,  the  Professor’s  own,  description 
of,  168. 

Boating,  the  Professor  describes  his, 
163. 

Boats,  the  Professor’s  fleet  of,  164. 

Books,  hating,  62  ; society  a strong  so- 
lution of,  62 ; the  mind  sometimes 
feels  above  them,  132 ; a man’s  and 
a woman’s  reading,  275. 

Bores,  all  men  are,  except  when  we 
want  them,  6. 

Boston,  seven  wise  men  of,  their  say- 
ings, 124. 

Bowie-knife,  the  Romam  gladius  modi- 
fied, 19. 

Brain,  upper  and  lower  stories  of,  179 ; 
attempts  to  reach  mechanically,  187. 

Brains,  seventy-year  clocks,  185 ; con- 
taining ovarian  eggs,  how  to  know 
them,  196. 

Bridget  becomes  a caryatid,  100 ; pre- 
sents a breast-pin,  313. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  admirable  senti- 
ment of,  93. 

Browning,  Elizabeth,  306. 

Bruce’s  Address,  alteration  of,  47. 

Bulbous-headed  people,  7. 

Bunker-hill  monument,  rocking  of,  286. 

Byron,  his  line  about  striking  the  elec- 
tric chain,  78. 

Cache,  children  make  instinctively,  204. 

Calamities,  grow  old  rapidly  in  propor- 
tion to  their  magnitude,  31 ; the  recol- 
lection of  returns  after  the  first  sleep 
as  if  new,  32. 

Calculating  machine,  8 ; power,  least 
human  of  qualities,  9. 

Call  him  not  old,  174. 

Campbell,  misquotation  of,  71. 


316 


INDEX. 


Canary-bird,  swimming  movements  of, 
85. 

Cant  terms,  use  of,  256. 

Carlyle,  his  article  on  Boswell,  280. 

Carpenter’s  bench.  Author  works  at, 
180. 

Chambers  Street,  272. 

Chamouni,  267. 

Characteristics,  Carlyle’s  article,  55. 

Charles  Street,  273. 

Chaucer  compared  to  an  Easter-Beurrd, 
83. 

Chess-playing,  conversation  compared 
to,  64. 

Children,  superstitious  little  wretches 
and  spiritual  cowards,  204. 

Chloroform,  Professor,  the,  under,  295. 

Chryso-aristocracy,  our,  the  weak  point 
in,  260. 

Cicero  de  Senectute^  Professor  reads, 
150  ; his  treatise  de  Senectute^  156. 

Cincinnati,  how  not  to  pronounce,  288. 

Circles  intellectual,  266. 

Cities,  some  of  the  smaller  ones  charm- 
ing, 127  ; leaking  of  nature  into,  273. 

Clergy  rarely  hear  sermons,  29. 

Clergymen,  their  patients  not  always 
truthful,  86. 

Clock  of  the  Andover  Seminary,  287. 

Closet  full  of  sweet  smells,  78. 

Clubs,  advantages  of,  64. 

Coat,  constructed  on  a priori  grounds, 
67. 

Cobb,  Sylvanus,  Jr.,  16. 

Coffee,  246,  248. 

Cold-blooded  creatures,  130. 

Coleridge,  his  remark  on  literary  men’s 
needing  a profession,  179. 

Coliseum,  visit  to,  279. 

Comet,  the  late,  24. 

Commencement  day,  like  the  start  for 
the  Derby,  95. 

Common  sense,  as  we  understand  it,  14. 

Communications  received  by  the  Au- 
thor, 288. 

Company,  the  sad,  247. 

Conceit  bred  by  little  localized  powers 
and  narrow  streaks  of  knowledge,  9 ; 
natural  to  the  mind  as  a centre  to  a 
circle,  10  ; uses  of,  10  ; makes  people 
cheerful,  10. 

Constitution,  American  female,  43 ; in 
choice  of  summer  residence,  265. 

Contentment,  268. 

Controversy,  hydrostatic  paradox  of, 
114. 

Conundrums  indulged  in  by  the  com- 
pany, 251 ; rebuked  by  the  Author, 
252. 

Conversation,  very  serious  matter,  5 ; 
with  some  persons  weakening,  5 ; 
great  faults  of,  10  ; spoiled  by  certain 
kinds  of  argument,  10  ; a code  of  final- 
ities necessary  to,  11 ; compared  to 
Italian  game  of  mora^  15  ; shapes  our 
thoughts,  27 ; Blair-\x\%  of  reported, 
40 ; one  of  the  fine  arts,  52 ; compared 


to  chess-playing,  64 ; depends  on  how 
much  is  taken  for  granted,  64 ; of 
Lecturers,  65. 

Cookeson,  William,  of  All-Souls  College, 
87. 

Copley,  his  portrait  of  the  merchant- 
uncle,  21 ; of  the  great-grandmother, 
21. 


“ Correspondent,  our  Foreign,”  117. 
Counterparts  of  people  in  many  differ- 
ent cities,  138. 

Cowper,  184 ; his  lines  on  his  mother’s 
portrait,  281 ; his  lines  on  the  “ Royal 
George,”  281. 

Creed,  the  Author’s,  89. 

Crinoline,  Otaheitan,  19. 

Crow  and  king-bird,  29. 

Curls,  flat  circular,  on  temples,  18. 


Dandies,  uses  of,  257  ; illustrious  ones, 
258,  259 ; men  are  born,  259. 

Davidson,  Lucretia  and  Margaret,  184. 

Deacon’s  Masterpiece,  The,  252. 

Death  as  a form  of  rhetoric,  132 ; intro- 
duction to,  209. 

Deerfield,  elm  in,  288. 

Devizes,  woman  struck  dead  at,  281. 

Dighton  Rock,  inscription  on,  246. 

Dimensions,  three  of  solids,  handling 
ideas  as  if  they  had,  85. 

Divinity,  doctors  of,  many  people  quali- 
fied to  be,  29. 

Divinity  Student,  the,  1,  42,  83,  84,  87, 
88,  101,  110,  124,  125,  132,  135,  182, 
187,  193,  197,  203,  220,  229,  230,  251, 
258,  262,  311. 

Doctor,  old,  his  catalogue  of  books  for 
light  reading,  157. 

Drinking-glasses,  ancient,  beliefs  like, 
15. 

Droll,  authors  dislike  to  be  called,  49. 

Drunkenness  often  a punishment,  190. 

Dull  persons  great  comforts  at  times,  6 ; 
happiness  of  finding  we  are,  61. 


Ears,  voluntary  movement  of,  10. 

Earth,  not  ripe  yet,  24. 

Earthquake,  to  launch  the  Leviathan, 
72. 

Eblis,  hall  of,  247. 

Editors,  appeals  to  their  benevolence, 
293 ; must  get  callous,  294. 

Education,  professional,  most  of  our 
people  have  had,  28. 

Eggs,  ovarian,  intellectual,  195. 

Elm,  American,  232 ; the  great  John- 
ston, 233;  Hatfield,  235;  Sheffield, 
235 ; West  Springfield,  235  ; Pittsfield, 
236 ; Newburyport,  236  , Cohasset, 
236  ? English  and  American,  compari- 
son ol,  237. 

Elms,  Springfield,  234 ; first-class,  235 ; 
second-class,  235 ; Mr.  Paddock’s  row 
of,  239  ; in  Andover,  287  ; in  Norwicl^ 
287  ; in  Deerfield,  288. 

Emerson,  2. 

Emotions  strike  us  obliquely,  279. 


INDEX.  817 


Epithets  follow  isothermal  lines,  114. 

Erasmus,  colloquies  of,  87  ; naufragium 
or  shipwreck  of,  88. 

Erectile  heads,  men  of  genius  with,  7. 

Essays,  diluted,  66. 

Essex  Street,  272. 

Esther,  Queen,  and  Ahasuerus,  309. 

Eternity,  remembering  one’s  self  in, 

201. 

Everlasting,  the  herb,  its  suggestions, 
76. 

Exercise,  scientifically  examined,  166. 

Ex  pede  Herculem,  109. 

Experience,  a solemn  fowl;  her  eggs, 
271. 

Experts  in  crime  and  suffering,  33. 

Faces,  negative,  141. 

Facts,  horror  of  generous  minds  for 
what  are  commonly  called,  5 ; the 
brute  beasts  of  the  intelligence,  5; 
men  of,  142. 

Family,  man  of,  20. 

Fancies,  youthful,  267. 

Farewell,  the  Author’s,  313. 

Fault  found  with  everything  worth  say- 
ing, 111. 

Feeling  that  we  have  been  in  the  same 
condition  before,  73 ; modes  of  explain- 
ing it,  74,  75. 

Feelings,  every  person’s,  have  a front- 
door and  a side-door,  128. 

Fields,  James  T.,  21. 

Fifty  cents,  a figure  of  rhetoric,  262. 

Flash  phraseology,  256. 

Flavor,  nothing  knows  its  own,  55. 

Fleet  of  our  companions,  94. 

Flowers,  why  poets  talk  so  much  of,  22. 

Franklin-place,  front-yards  in,  272. 

French  exercise,  Benjamin  Franklin’s, 
58,  136. 

Friends  shown  up  by  story-tellers,  61. 

Friendship  does  not  authorize  one  to  say 
disagreeable  things,  51. 

Front-door  and  side-door  to  our  feelings, 
128. 

Fruit,  green,  intellectual,  these  United 
States  a great  market  for,  261  ; 
mourning,  307. 

Fuel,  carbon  and  bread  and  cheese  are 
equally,  155. 

Funny,  authors  ashamed  of  being,  50. 

“ Fust-rate  ” and  other  vulgarism,  28. 

Geese  for  swans,  233. 

Genius,  a weak  flavor  of,  3 ; the  advent 
of,  a surprise,  54. 

Gift-enterprises,  Nature’s,  55. 

Gilbert,  the  French  poet,  184. 

Gil  Bias,  the  archbishop  served  him 
right,  51 ; motto  from,  199. 

Gilman,  Arthur,  21. 

Gilpin,  Daddy,  231. 

Gingko-tree,  277. 

Girls’  story  in  “ Book  of  Martyrs,”  305 ; 
two  young,  their  fall  from  gallery. 


Gizzard  and  liver  never  confounded, 
309. 

Good-by,  the  Author’s,  313. 

Grammar,  higher  law  in,  40. 

Grammar  of  Assent.;  Newman’s,  14. 

Gravestones,  transplanting  of,  239. 

Green  fruit,  intellectual,  261. 

Ground-bait,  literary,  38, 

Habit,  what  its  essence  is,  155. 

Hand,  the  great  wooden,  205. 

“ Haow  ? ” whether  final,  110. 

Harvard  University,  20. 

Hat,  the  old  gentleman  opposite’s  white, 
177 ; the  author’s  youthful  Leghorn, 
177. 

Hats,  aphorisms  concerning,  177. 

Hawthorne,  2. 

Hearts,  inscriptions  on,  246. 

Heresy,  burning  for,  experts  in,  would 
be  found  in  any  large  city,  33. 

Historian,  the  quotation  from,  on  pun- 
ning, 13. 

Honey,  emptying  the  jug  of,  17. 

Hoosac  Tunnel,  completion  of  the,  25. 

Horse-chestnut  at  Rockport,  289. 

Horses,  what  they  feed  on,  166. 

Hospitality  depends  on  latitude,  302. 

Hot  day,  sounds  of,  302. 

Hotel  de  I'Univers  et  des  JStais  Unis, 
126. 

Housatonic,  the  Professor’s  dwelling  by, 
244. 

Houses,  dying  out  of,  241 ; killed  by 
commercial  smashes,  241  ; shape 
themselves  upon  our  natures,  242. 

House,  the  body  we  live  in,  241 ; Irish- 
man’s at  Cambridgeport,  19. 

Houynhnm  Gazette,  227. 

Huckleberries,  hail-storm  of,  230. 

Hull,  how  Pope’s  line  is  read  there, 
128. 

Huma,  story  of,  8. 

Humanities,  cumulative,  23. 

Hyacinth,  blue,  228,  229. 

Hysterics,  90. 

Ice  in  wine-glass,  tinkling  like  cow- 
beUs,  78. 

Ideas,  age  of,  in  our  memories,  31 ; 
handling  them  as  if  they  had  the 
three  dimensions  of  solids,  85. 

Imponderables  move  the  world,  136. 

Impromptus,  17. 

Inherited  traits  show  very  early,  195. 

Insanity,  the  logic  of  an  accurate  mind 
overtasked,  42 ; becomes  a duty  under 
certain  circumstances,  42. 

Instincts,  crushing  out  of,  304. 

Intemperance,  the  Author  discourses  of, 
188. 

Intermittent,  poetical,  248. 

Inventive  Power,  economically  used, 
238. 

Iris,  cut  the  yellow  hair,  50. 

Irishman’s  house  at  Cambridgeport,  19. 

Island,  the,  39. 


318 


INDEX, 


Jailers  and  undertakers  magnetize  peo- 
ple, 33. 

Jaundice,  as  a token  of  affection,  133. 

John  and  Thomas,  their  dialogue  of  six 
persons,  53. 

John,  the  young  fellow  called,  54,  65, 
73,  79,  101,  113,  174,  187, 192, 194,  207, 
218,  230,  251,  257,  2G6,  307,  312. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  his  remark  on  attacks, 
114  ; lines  to  Thrale,  151. 

Judgment,  standard  of,  how  to  estab- 
lish, 14. 

Keats,  184. 

Keble,  his  poem,  311. 

“Kerridge,”  and  other  characteristic 
■expressions,  109. 

Kirke  White,  185. 

Knowledge,  little  streaks  of  specialized, 
breed  conceit,  9. 

Knuckles,  marks  of,  on  broken  glass, 
108. 

Lady,  the  real,  not  sensitive  if  looked 
at,  194. 

Lady-Boarder,  the,  with  autograph- 
book,  6. 

Landlady,  52,  72,  107,  304,  311. 

Landlady’s  daughter,  16, 18, 57, 138, 221, 
230,  307,  311. 

Landon,  Letitia,  306. 

Latter-day  Warnings,  24. 

Laughter  and  tears,  wind  and  water- 
power, 90. 

Lecturers,  grooves  in  their  minds,  65 ; 
talking  in  streaks  out  of  their  lec- 
tures, 65 ; get  homesick,  142 ; attacks 
upon,  303. 

Lectures,  feelings  connected  with  their 
delivery,  138 ; popular,  what  they 
should  have,  139 ; old,  139 ; what  they 
ought  to  be,  140. 

Leibnitz,  remark  of,  1. 

Les  Societes  Polyphysiophilosophiques^ 
136. 

Letter  to  an  ambitious  young  man,  289. 

Letters  with  various  requests,  69. 

Leviathan,  launch  of,  72. 

Life,  experience  of,  29;  compared  to 
transcript  of  it,  59 ; compared  to 
books,  134;  divisible  into  fifteen  pe- 
riods, 153  ; early,  revelations  concern- 
ing, 202  ; its  experiences,  275. 

Lilac  leaf-buds,  228,  229. 

Lion,  the  leaden  one  at  Alnwick,  281. 

Liston  thought  himself  a tragic  actor,  91. 

Literary  pickpockets,  51. 

Living  Temple,  The,  175. 

Lochiel  rocked  in  cradle  when  old,  82. 

Log,  using  old  schoolmates  as,  to  mark 
our  rate  of  sailing,  93. 

.logical  minds,  what  they  do,  14. 

Longfellow,  2. 

Long  path,  the,  304 ; walking  together, 
313. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  23. 

Love-capacity,  270. 


Love,  introduction  to,  210 ; its  relative 
solubility  in  the  speech  of  men  and 
women,  271. 

Ludicrous,  a divine  idea,  92. 

Luniversary,  return  of,  49. 

Lyric  conception  hits  like  a bullet,  98. 

Macaulay-flowers  of  Literature,  13. 

“Magazine,  Northern,”  got  up  by  the 
“ Come-Outers,”  120. 

Maine,  willows  in,  288. 

Man  of  family,  20. 

Map,  photograph  of,  on  the  wall,  243. 

Mare  Rubrum,  122. 

Marigold,  its  suggestions,  76. 

Mather,  Cotton,  67,  299. 

Meerschaums  and  poems  must  be  k^t 
and  used,  101,  103. 

Men,  self-made,  20 ; all,  love  all  wom- 
en, 221. 

Mesalliance^  dreadful  consequences  of, 
215. 

Middle-aged  female,  takes  offence,  30. 

Millionism,  green  stage  of,  308. 

Milton  compared  to  a Saint-Germain 
pear,  etc.,  83. 

Mind,  automatic  actions  of,  134. 

Minds,  classification  of,  1 ; jerky  ones 
fatiguing,  6;  logical,  what  they  do, 
14 ; calm  and  clear,  best  basis  for  love 
and  friendship,  131;  saturation-point 
of,  133. 

Minister,  my  old,  his  remarks  on  want 
of  attention,  30. 

Misery,  a great  one  puts  a new  stamp 
on  us,  32. 

Misfortune,  professional  dealers  in,  33. 

Misprints,  49. 

Molasses,  Melasses,  or  Molossa’s,  67. 

Mora,  Italian  game  of  conversation  com- 
pared to,  15. 

Moralist,  the  great,  quotation  from,  on 
punning,  12. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  2,  26. 

Mountains  and  sea,  264. 

Mourning  fruit,  307. 

Mug,  the  bitten,  200. 

Muliebrity  and  femineity  in  voice,  216. 

Musa,  249. 

Muscular  powers,  when  they  decline, 
156. 

Muse,  the,  249. 

Musicians,  odd  movements  of,  85. 

Music,  its  effects  different  from  thought, 
132. 

Mutual  Admiration,  Society  of,  2. 

My  Lady’s  Cheek  (verse),  153. 

Myrtle  Street,  discovered  by  the  Pro- 
fessor, 165 ; description  of,  165 ; gar- 
den in,  272. 

Nahant,  265. 

Nature,  Amen  of,  229 ; leaking  of,  inti 
cities,  273. 

Nautilus,  The  Chambered,  97. 

Nerve-playing,  masters  of,  129. 

Nerve-tapping,  6. 


INDEX.  319 


J^erve,  olfactory,  connection  of,  with 
brain,  77. 

Newman’s  Grammar  of  Assent,  147. 

Newton,  his  speech  about  the  child  and 
the  pebbles,  84. 

Naushon  Island,  39. 

Norwich,  elms  in,  287 ; how  not  to  pro- 
nounce, 288. 

Novel,  one,  everybody  has  stuff  for,  59 ; 
why  I do  not  write  a,  59. 

Oak,  its  one  mark  of  supremacy,  232; 
at  Beverly  Farms,  288. 

Ocean,  the,  two  men  walking  by,  83. 

Old  Age,  starting  point  of,  151 ; allegory 
of,  151 ; approach  of,  152 ; how  nature 
cheats  us  into,  154 ; habits  the  great 
mark  of,  155 ; in  the  Professor’s  con- 
temporaries, 160 ; remedies  for,  163 ; 
excellent  remedy  for,  173. 

Old  Gentleman  opposite,  3,  53,  61,  86, 
99, 174,  177,  178, 197,  208,  210,  312, 313. 

Old  Man,  a person  startled  when  he 
first  hears  himself  called  so,  154. 

Old  Men,  always  poets  if  they  ever  have 
been,  100. 

Omens,  of  childhood,  205. 

One-hoss-shay,  The  Wonderful,  252. 

“Our  Sumatra  Correspondence,”  117. 

Pail,  the  white  pine,  of  water,  200. 

Parallelism,  without  identity,  in  ori- 
ental and  occidental  nature,  237. 

Parentheses,  dismount  the  reader,  179. 

Parson  Turell’s  Legacy,  297. 

Path,  the  long,  277. 

Pears,  men  are  like,  in  coming  to  ma- 
turity, 82. 

Pedal  locomotives,  168. 

Peirce,  2. 

Phosphorus,  its  suggestions,  75. 

Photographs  of  the  Past,  242. 

Phrases,  complimentary,  applied  to  au- 
thors, what  determines  them,  115. 

Physalia,  97. 

Pie,  the  young  fellow  treats,  disrespect- 
fully, 79 ; the  Author  takes  too  large 
a piece  of,  80. 

Piecrust,  poems,  etc.,  written  imder  in- 
fluence of,  80. 

Pillar,  the  Hangman’s,  288  et  seq. 

Pinkney,  William,  7. 

Pirates,  Danish,  their  skins  on  church 
doors,  107. 

Plagiarism,  Author’s  virtuous  disgust 
for,  146. 

Pocket-book  fever,  207. 

Poem  — with  the  slight  alterations^  48. 

Poems,  alterations  of,  47  ; have  a body 
and  a soul,  99 ; green  state  of,  lal ; 
porous  like  meerschaums,  103 ; post- 
prandial, the  Professor’s  idea  of,  222. 

Poet,  my  friend  the,  98,  128,  174,  178 
et  seq.,  183,  222,  223,  225. 

Poets  love  verses  while  warm  from  their 
minds,  101  ; two  kinds  of,  183;  apt  to 
act  mechanically  on  their  brains,  187. 


Poets  and  artists,  why  like  to  be  prone 
to  abuse  of  stimulants,  199. 

Poetaster  who  has  tasted  type,  293. 

Poetical  impulse  external,  99. 

Poetry  uses  white  light  for  its  main  ob- 
ject, 50. 

Polish  lance,  19. 

Poor  relation  in  black  bombazine,  86, 
101,  208,  262,  311. 

Poplar,  murder  of  one;  232. 

Port-chuck,  his  vivacious  sally,  177. 

Portsm''uth,  how  not  to  pronounce,  288. 

Powers,  little  localized,  breed  conceit^ 
9. 

Preacher,  dull,  might  lapse  into  quasi 
heathenism,  29. 

“Prelude,”  the  Professor’s,  296. 

Prentiss,  Dame,  200. 

Pride  in  a woman,  271. 

Prince  Rupert’s  drops  of  literature,  38. 

Principle  against  obvious  facts,  56. 

Private  Journal,  extract  from  my,  246. 

Private  theatricals,  43. 

Probabilities  provided  with  buffers,  56. 

Profession,  literary  men  should  have  a, 
179. 

Professor,  my  friend  the,  26,  72,  81,  90, 
108,  114,  120,  148  et  seq.,  174,  178  el 
seq.,  194,  195,  196,  225,  241  et  seq., 
252,  295  et  seq. 

Prologue,  45. 

Public  Garden,  273. 

Pugilists,  when  “stale,”  156. 

Punning,  quotations  respecting,  12. 

Puns,  law  respecting,  11 ; what  they 
consist  in,  50 ; surreptitiously  circu- 
lated among  the  company,  251. 

Pupil  of  the  eye,  simile  concerning,  the 
Author  disgorges,  144. 

Quantity,  false,  Sidney  Smith’s  remark 
on,  110. 

Race  of  life,  the,  report  of  running  in, 
95. 

Races,  our  sympathies  go  naturally  with 
higher,  66. 

Racing,  not  republican,  34 ; records  of, 
36. 

Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,  204. 

Raspail’s  proof-sheets,  25. 

Rat  des  Salons  d Lecture,  58. 

Reading  for  the  sake  of  talking,  134 ; % 
man’s  and  a woman’s,  275. 

Recolle-^tionsj,  trivial,  essential  to  our 
identity,  209. 

Relatives,  opinions  of,  as  to  a man’s 
powers,  54. 

Repeating  one’s  self,  7. 

Reputation,  living  on  contingent,  61. 

Reputations,  conventional,  38. 

“Retiring”  at  night,  etiquette  of,  208. 

Rhode  Island,  near  what  place,  233. 

Rhymes,  old,  we  get  tired  of,  18  ; bad  to 
chew  upon,  292. 

Ridiculous,  love  of,  dangerous  to  liter 
ary  men,  90. 


320 


INDEX, 


Koby,  Joseph,  245. 

Eoses,  damask,  227,  229. 

Bowing,  nearest  approach  to  flying,  168 ; 
its  excellences,  169 ; its  joys,  170. 

“Eoyal  George,”  the,  Cowper’s  poem 
on,  281. 

Bum,  the  term  applied  by  low  people  to 
noble  fluids,  190. 

Saas-plates,  308. 

Saddle-leather  compared  to  sole-leather, 
166. 

“Sahtisfahction,”  a tepid  expression, 
109. 

Saint  Genevieve,  visit  to  church  of,  280. 

“ Saints  and  their  bodies,”  an  admirable 
Essay,  163. 

Santorini’s  laughing-muscle,  194. 

Saturday  Club,  the,  of  Boston,  2. 

Saving  one’s  thoughts,  27. 

Schoolmistress,  the,  32,  43,  61,  87,  107, 
117,  124,  125,  135,  183,  202  et  seq.,  208, 
210  5eg.,  227,  239,  246  et  seq.,  266, 

309  et  seq.,  313. 

“Science,”  the  Professor’s  inward  smile 
at  her  airs,  179. 

Scientific  certainty  has  no  spring  in  it, 
56. 

Scientific  knowledge  partakes  of  inso- 
lence, 55. 

Scraping  the  floor,  effect  of,  50. 

Sea  and  Mountains,  264. 

Seed  capsule  (of  poems),  200. 

Self-determining  power,  limitation  of, 
89. 

Self-esteem,  with  good  ground,  is  impos- 
ing, 10. 

Self-made  men,  19. 

Sermon,  proposed,  of  the  Author,  86. 

Sermons,  feeble,  hard  to  listen  to,  but 
may  act  inductively,  29. 

Sentiments,  all  splashed  and  streaked 
with,  229. 

Seven  Wise  Men  of  Boston,  their  say- 
ings, 124. 

Shakspeare,  old  copy,  with  flakes  of  pie- 
crust between  its  leaves,  78. 

Shawl,  the  Indian  blanket,  19. 

Shortening  weapons  and  lengthening 
boundaries,  19. 

Ship,  the,  and  martin-house,  207. 

Ships,  afraid  of,  204. 

Shop-blinds,  iron,  produce  a shiver,  267. 

Sierra  Leone,  native  of,  enjoying  him- 
self, 302. 

Sight,  pretended  failure  of,  in  old  per- 
sons, 173. 

Sigourney,  Mrs.,  8. 

Similitude  and  analogies,  ocean  of,  84. 

Sin,  its  tools  and  their  handle,  124  ; in- 
troduction to,  209. 

Smell,  as  connected  with  the  memory, 
etc.  75. 

Smile,  the  terrible,  192. 

Smith,  Sidney,  surgical  operation  pro- 
posed by,  48;  abused  by  London 
Quarterly  Review,  91. 


Sneaking  fellows  to  be  regarded  ten. 
derly,  219. 

Societes,  les,  Polyphysiophilosophiques. 
136. 

Societies  of  mutual  admiration,  2. 

Soul,  its  concentric  envelopes,  241. 

Sounds,  suggestive  ones,  211,  212. 

Sparring,  the  Professor  sees  a little,  and 
describes  it,  171. 

Spoken  language,  plastic,  27. 

Sporting  men,  virtues  of,  37. 

Spring  has  come,  197. 

Squirming  when  old  falsehoods  are 
turned  over,  113. 

Stage-Ruffian,  the,  53. 

“ Stars,  the,  and  the  earth,”  a little 
book,  referred  to,  265. 

State  House,  Boston,  the  hub  of  the  so- 
lar system,  125. 

“ Statoo  of  deceased  infant,”  109. 

Stillicidium,  sentimental,  80. 

Stone,  flat,  turning  over  of.  111. 

Stranger,  who  came  with  young  fellow 
called  John,  125,  307. 

“ Strap  ! ” my  man  John’s  story,  106. 

Strasburg  Cathedral,  rocking  of  its 
spire,  285. 

Striking  in  of  thoughts  and  feelings, 
134. 

Stuart,  his  two  portraits,  22. 

Sullivan,  John,  21. 

Summer  residence,  choice  of,  265. 

Sumner,  2. 

Sun  and  Shadow,  41. 

Sunday  mornings,  how  the  Author 
shows  his  respect  for,  174. 

Swans,  taking  his  ducks  for,  273. 

Swift,  property  restored  to,  146. 

Swords,  Roman  and  American,  19. 

Sylva  Novanglica,  236. 

Syntax,  Dr.,  231. 

Talent,  a little,  makes  people  jealous,  3. 

Talkers,  real,  143. 

Talking  like  playing  at  a mark  with  an 
engine,  28 ; one  of  the  fine  arts,  62. 

Teapot,  literary,  62. 

The  last  Blossom,  161. 

The  old  Man  Dreams,  68. 

The  two  Armies,  225. 

The  Voiceless,  306. 

Theological  students,  we  all  are,  29. 

Thought  revolves  in  cycles,  73;  if  ut- 
tered, is  a kind  of  excretion,  196. 

Thoughts  may  be  original,  though  often 
before  uttered,  7 ; saving,  27  ; shaped 
in  conversation,  27  ; tell  worst  to  min- 
ister and  best  to  young  people,  30; 
my  best  seem  always  old,  31  ; real, 
knock  out  somebody’s  wind,  113. 

Thought-Sprinklers,  27. 

Time  and  space,  266. 

Tobacco-stain  may  strike  into  character, 
103. 

Tobacco-stopper,  lovely  one,  102. 

Towns,  small,  not  more  modest  thap 
cities,  126. 


INDEX.  321 


Toy,  author  carves  a wonderful,  at  Mar- 
seilles, 180. 

Toys  moved  by  sand,  caution  from  one, 
80. 

Travel,  maxims  relating  to,  278 ; recol- 
lections of,  279. 

Tree,  growth  of,  as  shown  by  rings  of 
wood,  286 ; slice  of  a hemlock,  286 ; 
its  growth  compared  to  human  lives, 
286. 

Trees,  great,  230 ; mother-idea  in  each 
kind  of,  232 ; afraid  of  measuring- 
tape,  233 ; Mr.  Emerson’s  report  on, 
234 ; of  America,  our  friend’s  inter- 
esting work  on,  236. 

Tree-wives,  230. 

Triads,  writing  in,  85. 

Trois  Freres,  dinners  at  the,  78. 

Trotting,  democratic  and  favorable  to 
many  virtues,  37  ; matches  not  races, 
37. 

Truth,  primary  relations  with,  14, 

Truths  and  lies  compared  to  cubes  and 
spheres,  116. 

Tupper,  16,  311. 

Tupperian  wisdom,  271. 

Tutor,  my  late  Latin,  his  verses,  262. 

Tyburn,  33. 

Unloved,  the,  305. 

Veneering  in  conversation,  143. 

Verse,  proper  medimn  for  revealing  our 
secrets,  60. 

Verses,  Album,  15 ; abstinence  from  writ- 
ing, the  mark  of  a poet,  201. 

Verse- writers,  their  peculiarities,  292. 

Violins,  soaked  in  music,  103  ; take  a 
century  to  dry,  104. 

Virtues,  negative,  262. 

Visitors,  getting  rid  of,  when  their  visit 
is  over,  17. 

Voice,  the  Teutonic  maiden’s,  215  ; the 
German  woman’s,  216 ; the  little  child’s 
in  the  hospital,  217. 

Voices,  certain  female,  214  ; fearfully 
sweet  ones,  214 ; hard  and  sharp,  216 ; 
people  do  not  know  their  own,  217  ; 
sweet,  must  belong  to  good  spirits. 


Voleur^  brand  of,  on  galley  rogues,  106. 

Volume,  man  of  one,  143. 

Walking  arm  against  arm,  18 ; laws  of, 
72  ; the  Professor  sanctions,  165  ; rid- 
ing and  rowing  compared  with,  167. 

Wasp,  sloop  of  war,  206. 

Watch-paper,  the  old  gentleman’s,  211. 

Water,  the  white-pine  pail  of,  200. 

Wedding,  the,  313. 

Wedding-presents,  the,  313. 

Wellington,  gentle  in  his  old  age,  82. 

What  we  all  think,  146. 

Will,  compared  to  a drop  of  water  in  a 
crystal,  86. 

Willows  in  Maine,  288. 

Wine  of  ancients,  66. 

Wit  takes  imperfect  views  of  things,  50. 

Woman,  an  excllent  instrument  for  a 
nerve-player,  129  ; to  love  a,  must  see 
her  through  a pin-hole,  221  ; must  be 
true  as  death,  270 ; love-capacity  in, 
270  ; marks  of  low  and  bad  blood  in, 
271 ; pride  in,  271 ; why  she  should 
not  say  too  much,  271. 

Women,  young,  advice  to,  49  ; first  to 
detect  a poet,  183  ; inspire  poets,  183  ; 
their  praise  the  poet’s  reward,  183  ; 
all  men  love  all,  220 ; all,  love  all 
men,  221 ; pictures  of,  221 ; who  have 
weighed  all  that  life  can  offer,  276. 

Woodbridge,  Benjamin,  his  grave,  239, 
240. 

World,  old  and  new,  comparison  of  their 
types  of  organization,  236. 

Writing  with  feet  in  hot  water,  7 ; like 
shooting  with  a rifle,  28. 

Yes?  in  conversation,  18. 

Yoricks,  21. 

Young  Fellow  called  John,  54,  65,  73, 
79,  101,  113,  174,  187,  192,  194,  207, 
218,  230,  251,  257,  266,  307,  312. 

Young  Lady  come  to  be  finished  off,  10. 

Youth,  flakes  off  like  button- wood  bark, 
153 ; American,  not  perfect  type  of 
physical  humanity,  171  j and  age,  what 
Author  means  by,  199. 

Zimmermann’s  Treatise  on  Solitude,  6. 


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